


Solace and Sanctuary

by Igneum807



Series: If We Must Starve (Let it be Together) [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: And also some Feral Nobility Jaskier, Anti-Witcher Sentiments, But also, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally constipated witchers, Fate & Destiny, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier Befriends the Witchers, M/M, The wolves at Lettenhove, Touch-Starved, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), decent human beings, some outside POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24502909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Igneum807/pseuds/Igneum807
Summary: The people of Lettenhove listen to every song that Jaskier writes. He is their viscount, after all. The songs speak of witchers as heroes, as saviors, and the people believe them. When Eskel stumbles on the town in a desperate state, he discovers an unexpected safe haven in Jaskier's home and sets off a chain of events that quickly spirals into something powerful. Something the poets call destiny. The destiny of a manor and its people. Because after all these years, after all the hatred and the scorn, the witchers of Kaer Morhen have found a place to call home.Heavy on the Jaskier/all the witchers friendship, but he and Geralt are in an established romantic relationship. Works as a standalone!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: If We Must Starve (Let it be Together) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706485
Comments: 1140
Kudos: 3090
Collections: Best Geralt





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoS13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoS13/gifts).



> I was completely, beautifully overwhelmed by the comments on my last fic. Y'all wanted to see more about the people of Lettenhove and Jaskier's witchers, and my brain was hit by a stroke of inspiration so strong it shocked me. I have this whole thing planned out already. Oh boy, it is gonna be a long one. I hope you guys are ready, I hope you enjoy, and, to all those people who left kind words on "Pulling Rank," thank you! A special thanks to RoS13, whose plot bunnies always make me smile like crazy (except for the angsty ones), and whose comment was a huge part of the inspiration for this story. 
> 
> By the way, there isn't really a need to read the rest of the series before this one. A few mentions and such might not make sense, but the narrative here will stand by itself just fine.

The sanctuary began as a manor. A viscount’s estate, somewhere in the fertile fields of Kerack. Generations of nobility called the place home, servants tending the gardens and townsfolk looking toward it with the distant longing of those who live at the base of luxury. It was a house like any other to the untrained eye. 

Some sorcerers might see different. The occasional Wise One would visit the house and wonder about the warmth against the back of their neck, or the swirl of chaos blowing in from the grounds. A talented few could see the threads of destiny that floated around the house like white puffs of dandelion seeds- here one moment and gone the next. The threads crawled up the walls like ivy, stronger with each passing year. A tapestry of destiny, slowly being woven. 

Dozens of hands worked on that tapestry. Some knowing, some not. They touched it in their own ways, nimble and rough, teasing and certain, pulling together threads until the fabric of fate clung to the manor like a second skin, woven so neatly into every brick that one could no more remove it from the house than they could magic from the land. 

Yes, many hands wove the tapestry. Many legends called it home. But the first was named Eskel, and he was tired.

…

The wounds aren’t anything serious. There are scratches up and down both thighs, but the bleeding stopped hours ago, and the bruises painted across his ribs are only large enough to ache, not threaten. Eskel ignores them as best he can.

Snow pours down from the sky in a fit of divine temper. His horse’s hooves sink into it too deep for comfort. The road before him has long since been obscured. Eskel pulls his hood in closer and shivers, thinking longingly of the roaring fires he left behind in Kaer Morhen. He and his brothers had thought the weather temperate enough to descend for the year. Apparently the gods have other ideas for Kerack. 

There is a town nearby, of that Eskel is certain. He doesn’t know which one. A contract for a pack of drowners brought him to the area, but along the road he has been accosted by bandits, attacked by an angry kikimore, and knocked out not once, but twice, by a deranged sorcerer with an anti-witcher bent to his magic. 

He is, rather understandably, lost. 

But even through all the snow, Eskel can smell the town. There are hints of it on the air- merchant’s perfumes along the road and the gentle scent of wood smoke drifting from the north. He follows the well-worn path, the thought of a hot meal and a decent bed keeping him upright in the saddle. Hopefully the locals will be more accommodating than the bastards with the drowner contract. Their insults still ring in his ears. 

For hours there is nothing, and then, like rays of sun breaking through the clouds, there is light. The glimmer of lamplight burns through the snow, heralding the edge of the town and the promise of respite from the cold. Eskel guides his horse toward it. 

An inn makes itself known through the blizzard. Eskel dismounts and uses his heavy boots to kick away snow from the stable doors, throwing them open with a shove of tired muscles and guiding Scorpion inside. He tends to him before heading to the inn. He’ll owe him an apology in the morning. For now, he has earned his rest. 

Snow has accumulated in front of the inn’s door, too. He kicks it away with an uncharacteristic growl and stumbles inside. Immediately, the scent of ale and fresh stew assaults his senses. Were Jaskier traveling with him, Eskel thinks the bard might cry. 

“Ale,” he says, practically falling onto a stool at the bar. “And a meal, please. Whatever you have.”

“Aye,” says the woman behind the counter. She fills a tankard and sets it before him, laughing as he knocks back half of it in one long draught. Alcohol may not provide any real warmth, but damn if it doesn’t feel good going down.

A meager bowl of stew follows the ale. It has little by way of meat, consisting mostly of broth after winter wore down the town’s stores. Eskel eats it gratefully, ignoring the way his stomach growls even after the bowl is empty. 

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” the woman says. 

Eskel is taken aback. Rarely do people bother to initiate conversation with him, and even less when they aren’t offering work. He wonders briefly is she’s just looking for a lay, but dismisses the idea quickly. His scars make him unappealing at the best of times. Tonight is hardly the best of times. 

“The gods tried to freeze me to death,” he replies, gesturing vaguely at the outdoors. 

She takes a good long look at his armor, his scars, and the swords strapped across his back. It is the dance of recognition that he has seen on a thousand different faces, in a thousand different towns. “You’re a witcher.”

Eskel inclines his head. “At your service.”

The woman leans in closer and stares at his medallion. Her eyebrows raise slightly in shock, and she turns to shout at another woman across the room. “Oi, Amelie. This lad here’s a witcher.”

He’s far too tired for another contract tonight. Perhaps, Eskel thinks, this town will be one of the few that takes credit. Another meal and a room in exchange for the promise of work, if he’s lucky. If not, he can make do in the stables. 

A matronly woman makes her way toward him. She has lines on her face and a set to her jaw that brooks no argument. From decades of dealing with foolish youngsters, no doubt. If his face could hold such lines, Eskel is sure Vesemir would look the same. He certainly has the same air about him. 

She slides onto the stool next to him with curiosity in her eyes. There is uncertainty in the way she watches him, but no fear. Eskel is thankful for it. “A witcher, are ya?”

“I am.”

The woman peers at his medallion and something in her expression softens. “You’re one o’ them wolf witchers. What are you doing here, dearie?”

Her words throw Eskel for a loop. He blinks at her, uncomprehending, and wonders, if she plans on throwing him out of town, why his school should matter at all. 

“Pardon me?”

She shakes her head at him like one would a disobedient child. “At the inn, love. Tryna get me in trouble, you are. The lord’ll have my head if he finds out there was a wolf witcher in town an’ he didn’t come on up to the manor.”

Eskel looks to the barkeep for clarification, but stops short at the look in her eyes. Caution, which he is more than used to, but overshadowing that, bright as day, is awe. She looks at him like young girls look at Jaskier when he sings of princesses and destiny. 

“I’m afraid I don’t-“ he tries. The woman cuts him off with a wave. 

“’S no matter,” she says. “Me an’ the others brought the carriage here for the night. The lord don’t care, mind you. Says it’s alright long as we have it ready for him as he needs.” She hops off the stool and makes for the backdoor, turning with her hands on her hips when Eskel remains seated. “C’mon then. We’ve got to get back before the snow’s too deep to ride in.”

Distantly, Eskel is aware of placing some coins down on the counter to pay for his meal. His feet follow the woman with little input from his conscious mind as she ushers him into a carriage with two of her companions and takes the horses’ reins. He looks toward the inn’s stable and- confident that his horse will be taken care of in the morning, lest the innkeep risk angering a patron- relaxes back into his seat with bewilderment. 

The girls with whom he shares the carriage watch him with the same mix of wariness and awe that the bartender did. He shifts under their stare. He can deal with hate. Misplaced interest from adventurous women, too, though that’s far more rare. These girls are too young for either, and experience tells him that both should reek of barely restrained fear. He is unsure what to do with the fact that they don’t.

Lucky for Eskel’s sanity, the trip to the manor is short. Whoever built this particular royal carriage was a man who had seen snow before and prepared for it well. They move up the hill to the local manor and pull up next to a side door. Eskel stumbles out after the girls, confusion slowing his steps, and is pulled forward by the older woman.

She guides him inside with one hand on his upper arm. The lack of fear in the way she touches him throws Eskel’s already weary mind into a spiral of unanswered questions. In search of something else to focus on, he looks around. 

The manor is…homey. That’s the only word he can think of to describe it, though Jaskier would probably have a million more. There are paintings on the wall like in any noble’s manor, only these don’t seem expensive. No, whoever put these up did so because they were pleasing, not to show off their wealth. The carpet is rich and well tended, the ceilings high and cobweb free. 

Eskel knows the look of castles. He knows that the beauty of a place is in its tending, and he knows that the lord is not the one to do that tending. It is the servants who care for the house. Whoever lives here, whatever he’s like, his servants adore him. Their pride shines through in every well-oiled door hinge, every spotless corner. 

The woman- Amelie, he reminds himself- steers him into a sitting room and pushes him down onto a settee in front of a roaring fire. 

“I’ll get some warmer clothes,” she says. “Fool of a man, travelin’ in so little. It’s barely spring, you know. I heard witchers were smarter than this.” 

Eskel feels oddly chastised. Amelie sweeps out of the room and he sits in silence, warming his hands over the fire but doing little else to thaw out. The bruises across his chest begin to ache anew. A few minutes later, she returns with a pile of thick, dark woolen clothes in hand. 

“Need help with that armor, then?”

Eskel glances down at his body. Snow had been crusted against the clips and buckles of his leather armor, but the snow has warmed it enough to be manageable. Besides, what is she to do if he says yes? Help him with it? The people of this town may be more welcoming than average, but Eskel very much doubts that Amelie would be comfortable so near him, in a position where he could strike so easily. 

“I-“ He shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself. Cook’s still awake, I’ll have her make you up somethin’.”

She tosses the pile of clothes on the settee and leaves again. Snow melts from Eskel’s armor to soak the carpet beneath him, and he raises a hand to the pendant at his neck to ground himself, seeking the familiar hum of magic against his palm. Slowly, he pulls himself from his haze of weariness and shock and begins to strip. The fire is a balm against his frozen skin. A dry shirt, trousers, and what looks like a hand-knit sweater replace his traveling attire, which he lays out carefully by the fire to dry. 

Some lords are willing to put up with a witcher for the night if it means discounted work. It’s a decent deal, most of the time. Eskel would happily take on a contract in return for escape from the elements. Problem is, he has seen neither hide nor hair of this town’s lord. The man can’t know of his presence yet. Amalie didn’t have time to contact or consult him since she found Eskel at the inn. 

None of it lines up. _The lord’ll have my head if he finds out there was a wolf witcher in town an’ he didn’t come on up to the manor._ What kind of man would give such an order?

Amelie reenters the room with a flourish, a portly man following closely at her heels. Her hands are occupied with a tray, laden down with bread, salted meat, and a mug of something that steams up the air. She sets it on the table in front of his seat and gestures for him to eat. 

“This here is Leo.” She points at the man beside her, who bows low. 

“Greetings, master witcher.”

Odd. Eskel rips off a hunk of the bread and adds it to the list. Perhaps the manor is enchanted. Wouldn’t that be just his luck? But enchanted or not, he isn’t one to turn down hospitality. Especially not with Jaskier’s voice in the back of his head, nagging him about _propriety, dear witcher. A heartfelt thanks can get you things a sword never could._

“Thank you,” he says. 

“Our pleasure, sir. Will you be wanting a bath before bed?”

“No.” All he wants is to collapse into bed and sleep until his bruises stop throbbing. A week, maybe more. “But if you have any spare bandages, I’ll thank you for them.”

“Have you need of a healer?” Amelie looks concerned. “You didn’t mention you was injured.”

“Minor scrapes, nothing more. I can handle them myself.”

“Aye,” Leo agrees, “I can find some bandages. We have some herbs lying about, too, for pain and inflammation and whatnot. I’ll bring what I can find.”

Eskel nods to him, doing his best not to look intimidating. It’s habit at this point, but seems redundant here. Leo doesn’t appear any more afraid of him than Amelie, or the girls in the carriage. If this place is enchanted, it’s a damn strange choice of curse. 

He eats quickly and Leo leads him upstairs to a bedroom. The pillows are more enticing than any siren’s song Eskel has ever heard. A fire roars in the fireplace, fresh wood stacked next to it. Servants bring up his armor from downstairs, laying it out precisely how he had it before, now in front of the new fire. They bow and cast unsubtle glances at his wolf medallion on their way out of the room. 

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

Eskel turns to Leo, noting how the man stands respectfully at the threshold. Not encroaching, not pushing. Simply offering. His head is up, his eyes unflinching when Eskel meets them. Curiosity overcomes the pressing need for sleep. 

“What is the name of your lord?” 

A furrow creases Leo’s brow. “You don’t know?”

“I got rather lost on the road here. I appreciate the hospitality, truly, but I have no clue where I am.”

“Ah.” Leo sweeps into a dramatic bow that reminds Eskel of a certain bard, and says, “With pride, sir, I serve Lord Julian Alfred Pankratz.” He looks at Eskel expectantly. Eskel raises his eyebrows. He has never heard of a man named Pankratz. 

Confusion takes up residence in Leo’s expression and he searches Eskel’s face for a moment. Realization, when it comes, is gentle. “But you,” Leo says softly, “likely know him by another name.” He gestures to the pendant around Eskel’s neck, nestled comfortably next to his wolf medallion, and offers him a knowing smile. “You are in the manor of the poet Jaskier, master witcher. Welcome to Lettenhove.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, I love outside POV. I completely made Leo up, but I had a grand old time writing bits of this from his perspective. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

_“I had no idea he was nobility.”_

_It’s Eskel that says it, leaning forward into the circle of his brothers. They’re gathered around a small table in the kitchens at Kaer Morhen, gossiping like a group of old fishwives. Eskel chuckles at the image. He doesn’t think elderly ladies drink mead, but then again, what does he know? Yennefer is pretty old, and she can drink any one of them under the table._

_“Neither did I,” Geralt says._

_Vesemir takes a long sip from his tankard and sets it down with a grimace. “You’ve travelled with the man for more than two decades, and you didn’t know he’s a fucking viscount?”_

_Geralt lifts his shoulders in a heavy shrug._

_“Took you fourteen years to figure out he isn’t mortal,” Lambert points out. “Figures you would miss something else obvious.”_

_Geralt kicks him under the table. “You didn’t know either.”_

_“I’m not fucking him.”_

_Sensing the possibility of a fight, Eskel nudges both their shoulders and tries to refocus the conversation. “So he showed up with his crown and got you out of a tough spot, eh, Lambert? Must have been an interesting show.”_

_“Coronet,” Lambert corrects._

_The three other witchers turn on him with matching expressions of surprise. “Sorry,” Eskel says, “what?”_

_“It’s a coronet, not a crown. Crowns have arches.”_

_Vesemir shoots Geralt a long-suffering look. He drains the rest of his mead and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You boys spend too much time around him. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me which fork is for salad and which is for steak.”_

_Geralt winces. “Small fork for salads. It’s the one on the leftmost edge.”_

_“Fuck,” Lambert says with feeling. “I could have told you that, too.”_

_Cursing his way through all the major gods of the last century or so, Vesemir goes to refill his tankard. He collapses back into his chair with a sigh and takes a long drink. “Viscount of where?”_

_“Lettenhove,” Lambert answers. “Some small town in Kerack.”_

_“Is it nice?” Geralt asks. Eskel is taken aback. He turns on Geralt, a question in his eyes, but the white haired witcher ignores him._

_Lambert shrugs. “Nice enough. Lots of colors everywhere, everyone in impractical clothing. The whole place was very…Jaskier.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Why?”_

_“I always figured he was some farmer’s son who ran off to become a bard. I knew about Oxenfurt,-“_

_Vesemir snorts. “Everyone with ears around that boy knows about Oxenfurt.”_

_“-but I thought he ended up in Posada because he had nowhere else to go.”_

_His words give Eskel pause. He leans back, drinking deeply and letting his thoughts wander. Jaskier is a curious case. Witchers were raised and mutated to walk the Path, but Jaskier tagged along willingly, befriending not one witcher but four, and getting himself wrapped up in the mess of destiny along the way. It was a dirty, bloody life. Nothing like the luxury he must have grown up in._

_Across the table, Geralt’s thoughts seem to be traveling down a similar path. His expression is shuttered, brows drawn down in concentration. Eskel knows that look. It means Geralt is stewing on something- twisting his emotions around themselves until each one is indistinguishable from the others, until their combined weight threatens to break him and he is forced to throw them off. A storm is brewing in his mind, and Eskel wonders what new understanding will be left behind when it finally breaks._

_Voices in the hallway pull Eskel from his musings. Ciri’s bright tone rings clear through the kitchen door._

_“It’s a terrible fucking rhyme,” she says._

_Geralt’s eyebrows raise and he glares at Lambert._

_“No,” Lambert says forcefully, “I did not teach her that.”_

_Ciri bursts into the kitchen, Jaskier hot on her heels. Her hair is back in a complex maze of braids that makes Eskel a little dizzy to look at. Flowers are tucked along the length of it. Flowers that could not possibly have grown on their own. Not in mid-winter._

_“’Hill’ and ‘full’ do not rhyme.” Ciri plops herself down on the edge of the kitchen counter and fiddles with one of the knives at her belt. “It sounds completely wrong.”_

_“It’s a_ near-rhyme, _” Jaskier explains. He drops into Geralt’s lap, pulls the tankard from his hand, and takes a deep drink. One of Geralt’s hands moves up to steady him. “It isn’t supposed to sound quite right.”_

_“It’s ridiculous.”_

_“You’re impossible,” Jaskier says. “Worse than your father, really.” He makes a face and grins wickedly over the edge of Geralt’s cup. “Worse than_ Yennefer. _”_

_They bicker, and Eskel drinks. Vesemir and Lambert drink with him, though Vesemir takes pity on Geralt a few minutes into Jaskier’s latest rant and slides a tankard his way to replace the one that has been lost to Jaskier’s emphatic hand gestures. It’s not until they all retire for the night- Ciri and Vesemir to their own rooms, Jaskier, Geralt, Lambert, and Eskel to their shared bed- that Eskel understands the storm brewing behind Geralt’s eyes. He understands because the same question creeps into his mind as he drapes an arm around his friend’s waist. Around the_ Viscount of Lettenhove’s _waist._

_If Jaskier has a true home to return to, why is he here?_

…

“Welcome to Lettenhove,” says Leo, and Eskel’s world comes crashing down. Of course. _Of course_ the first place to show him true kindness in years is the same place that Jaskier rules over. Destiny would accept nothing less.

Leo bows once more and heads out, blissfully unaware of how Eskel’s head is spinning. It’s late. It’s late at night, the gods are throwing a shit fit outside, and his body is covered in bruises and scrapes, little aches and pains that make themselves known now that he’s safe. The revelation of Jaskier’s identity is the final cut that breaks him down. Eskel collapses back against the nicest bed he’s slept in for years and passes out.

…

The witcher is nothing like Leo expected. He’s polite, for one thing. Says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ like a young man should. And yes, perhaps the witcher is several decades older than Leo by technicality, but his body does not show the years. The witcher in Julian’s songs has the table manners of a rabid bear, and hair _like the freshest snows in Skellige, Leo._ This must not be the White Wolf.

It matters not to him, nor the rest of the staff. This witcher bears the wolf pendant. He is the White Wolf’s brother- one of the other men who travels with Lord Pankraz. One of those who freed him from that godsforsaken camp, who saved his life and carried him through the months of trauma that followed. Four witchers against a camp of hundreds, the rumors say. Four witchers and the bard they killed for. 

Leo remembers cleaning spilled milk from young Julian’s cheek. He remembers watching the child grow into the man. He was there for every scrape, every stumble, for the earliest heartbreaks, and the family shouting matches. He was there for the first time someone put a lute in Julian’s hands and changed his life forever. 

Julian’s late mother and father were not cruel, but they were not warm. It was to Leo’s arms that Julian ran, to the promise of kind words and a full belly no matter the time of day. He still does, sometimes. Leo will be woken by a harsh knock at his door in the dead of night. He will throw it open to find a young man- still so young, even after all these years- hair in disarray, silks askew, shaking because the weight of the world has finally become to much for him to bear. 

There is always a new story when Julian returns. When he has been held and fed and comforted by hands that are not rough with destiny, the stories come spilling out. Leo has never been beyond the boundary of Lettenhove, but he feels as though he has traveled the world. The furthest reaches of Temeria. The edges of Redania. He feels as though he has stood beside legends and watched the ships sail into Skellige, sunlight warm against his back. 

A new story, always. And always a new scar. 

Leo has never felt his years more than the day Julian returned with stories of soldiers on his lips and a tapestry of pain written across his body. He remembers holding Julian close, too relieved to see him on the doorstep, alive, to even bother with customary greetings. Julian had never been burned before. Even after all his years of walking alongside danger, of chasing toward monsters with a bounce in his step and a lute in his arms, he had not felt the brunt of that danger. But miraculous escapes are just that. Miracles. 

Abject miracles from fickle gods. 

His voice showed its age that night. It cracked around his words as Julian watched him, eyes dark with wisdom beyond his years. 

“You have to stop,” Leo had pleaded. “Stop following him, Julian. Come home. Rest. Your life is worth more than any ballad you could write.”

Julian just shook his head. “I don’t do it for the ballads, Leo. You know that.”

He did. It may never have been said in so many words, but Julian’s poems were clear enough. “You do it for the witcher.”

“Witchers,” Julian told him. “But yes. I would follow them into the fires of hell if it meant they did not have to go alone.”

“Why? They aren’t your family. They aren’t even human, Julian. You owe them nothing.”

“I love them,” Julian said simply. He leaned forward and clasped Leo’s hands in both of his, smooth skin against the wrinkles of age. “Hear me now,” he begged. “We share no blood between us, Leo, and yet I love you like a father. I am not fully human, and yet you treat me like a son. Do our choices not count for anything? May we not choose who holds our hearts?”

Leo could only shake his head. “They will get you killed someday.”

Julian held his hands all the tighter. “That’s where you’re wrong, my old friend. The _world_ has tried its best to kill me. My witchers are what stopped it from succeeding.”

Stories of the fall of the Nilfgaardian camp inspire fear in most that hear them. Leo cannot imagine it has garnered the witchers much kindness. But the stories are different in Lettenhove. Their whispers speak of protectors, of vengeful beings whose power is unleashed only on beasts that deserve it. The people of Lettenhove know the witchers as heroes.

Leo knows them as the men who saved his son.

…

The witcher makes his way down to breakfast well past dawn. Leo watches him settle down in the dining room, his fingers brushing against the table before taking a tentative seat in one of the great oak chairs. Taking loud steps so as not to startle him, Leo emerges from the kitchen with two large trays in hand.

“Good morning, sir.”

His greeting is met with a blink and a flash of confusion that is quickly hidden behind a politely blank veneer. “Good morning.”

Leo sets one of the trays before him. It is laden with the best of what Cook could scrounge up from their winter stores. Salted meat and bread, mostly, and plenty of it. Julian told some fairly memorable stories about his witchers' appetites. 

“Thank you,” says the witcher. Leo offers him a smile. 

“Any friend of Lord Pankratz is welcome here,” he says firmly. “Though from your hair I take it you are not the famed White Wolf that Julian is so fond of?”

To Leo’s surprise, the witcher chuckles. It’s a light sound for so large a man. 

“No, I am not Geralt.” He hesitates a moment before extending his hand across the table. “My name is Eskel.”

“Leopold Eiv Bundin, at your service sir. My wife Amelie is the woman you met last night.”

Eskel nods and digs into his food with little preamble. Leo eats with him, content for now to watch and think. Soon enough, the household will have need of him. There are always chores, always people to look after and paperwork to complete. He had time to himself before the sun rose, but now he is ready for talk. For stories. 

“Have you traveled with Julian long?”

The witcher pauses to consider him. His yellow eyes dig into Leo’s with an intensity that makes his hackles rise. This man is a hero, yes, but he is also a predator. Leo steels himself and returns the gaze with as much passivity as he can manage. 

“Several years, on and off. He’s with Geralt most of the time.”

“And you spend the winters together?”

“We do.” Eskel finishes off his meal and focuses entirely on Leo. “Jaskier has spoken to you about it, I assume?”

“Indeed, sir. He has spoken of Kaer Morhen at length.”

Fondness turns Eskel’s yellow eyes gold. “Jaskier speaks of everything at length.”

And therein lies the problem. The fact that digs at Leo’s mind and keeps the gossip circles running in the local tavern. Lord Pankratz will talk anyone’s ear off about every topic under the sun save one. 

“He sings your praises,” Leo says on a hushed breath, “but never his own.”

“Doesn’t sound like Jaskier to me.”

Leo waves a hand. “Oh, he speaks of his involvement in your adventures plenty. Always sweeping in at the last second to hit some monster with a branch and save the day.” He leans in, tone turning serious. “But we both know there is more to the stories. I’ve seen his scars, master witcher.” Pain flashes across Eskel’s face and is quickly smoothed away. “I asked about how he got them, and the answer I got spoke of _you._ Your heroics. Your planning. Your skill. Never his own, sir. Never that.”

Eskel sets his hands on the table. He leans forward, his eyes severe and his tone heavy with honesty. “Jaskier is the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

The words fill Leo’s lungs. They wrap around his heart and settle next to memories gone grey with time, cementing a truth that he already knew. 

“He killed two men before he was taken,” Eskel continues. “Insulted them as they dragged him away.” His breath comes slightly ragged, the raw emotion in it matching the way his fingers dig into the table. “Jaskier looked death in the eye and called it a cunt. Are those the stories you wish him to tell?”

“Aye,” Leo says, swallowing around his dry throat. “That and many more, master witcher.” 

He stands on unsteady legs to collect their trays. Eskel catches his wrist before he can pull away completely. 

“At least let me pay you for the food.”

Leo looks down at Eskel’s hand. Strong and calloused, it looks well suited to the harsh life of a monster hunter. But his grip on Leo is soft. It is restrained, as though he has experience containing his strength around weaker beings. 

“I’ll not take your coin, sir. I’d be no true host if I did. But if you wish to pay me back, stay for the day. Eat your fill. Sleep some more, if you like, or tend to your horse. Stay the day, and tonight, tell us of Julian.”

…

Some kind soul brought Scorpion up from the village below the manor and set him up in Jaskier’s stables. Eskel spent a good portion of the day by his side, brushing the road from his coat and taking time to think. His clothes had disappeared from the fireplace, no doubt off being washed by a horrified servant, so he stands in the same simple shirt and trousers that were found for him last night.

Leo’s questions made little sense in the morning. The longer Eskel thinks on them, however, the clearer things become. Jaskier’s exaggerations are egregious and dramatic, but rarely do they touch on things that truly matter. He does not sing of the times they fail, or of the pain of simple, human mistakes. He does not glorify lives lost to senseless violence.

In some twisted way, it makes sense that he would not speak of his own obstinate bravery. For all his boasting, Jaskier has never seemed to realize how impressive his brazen confidence is, how entirely overwhelming he can be to those who fear the things they should. He sleeps nearly naked in a bed with three witchers every night of winter and doesn’t bat an eyelash- quietly reveling in something that would have most men running for the hills with fear. 

Eskel meant his words when he said that Jaskier was the bravest man he ever met. Bravery is easy for witchers and sorcerers. At least they have weapons to hide behind. Jaskier faces the stuff of nightmares on the Path with nothing but his lute and a disarming smile. Even after all these years, Eskel is still in wonder over it. 

It’s with Jaskier’s bravery in mind that he sits down with the manor’s servants that night. Dinner was delicious and there is just enough wine in Eskel’s stomach to loosen his tongue. He answers every question candidly. He tells every story with enough detail to satisfy even Jaskier. 

At the end of a long evening, the servants tell stories of their own. Some of them knew Jaskier as a child. Others know him only as the absentee viscount who drops by a few times a year to play them new songs and eat the kitchen out of house and home. Leo’s are the best- painting a picture of a young Jaskier coming into his own through rather dramatic trial and error. 

Not one of them smells of fear. Not one. They laugh at Leo’s stories and, when Eskel sets his goblet down hard enough to shake the table, none of them flinch. He lets loose more than he intended to as the night winds on. It’s easy, so blessedly easy, to drop his guard in a room full of people that treat him not as a monster, or a sorcerer, but a man like any other. 

When the wine runs dry and even the young serving girls start to yawn, Amelie stands up to disband the party. Hands on her hips, she raises her voice with such determination that even Eskel listens up. 

“Time to sleep,” she announces. “Including you, Al, don’t think I won’t notice if the keg’s a little lower on the morrow.” 

One of the men tips his hat at her and heads for the door. He slaps Eskel’s shoulder on the way out. 

“Yer a good lad,” he says. “Keep the lord safe for us, won’t ya?”

Eskel can only nod. The others shuffle out with similar touches. A hand on his arm or a friendly cuff over the ear. One of the girls kisses his cheek, right over the scars. He stares after her long after the door has closed between them. 

“You look like you’ve been hit by one of those signs of yours,” Leo says. 

He’s standing by the fireplace. Eskel turns to him slowly and lets his lips tug up into the smile he’d been holding back all night. “This town is insane.”

“Aye. Though I don’t know what about this party taught you that.”

“Someone just hit me,” Eskel says, dazed. “Over the ear. Like a child.”

Leo shrugs. “That’s just Sasha. Didn’t hurt you, did she?”

Eskel meets his eyes with one brow arched. “I could snap her in half with a finger.” The truth of his words hits him in the chest and he settles back into his chair. Softly, he says, “I could have killed every man in this room before any of you could reach a weapon.”

“Yes.” Leo leaves his place by the fire and squats down next to Eskel’s chair. He reaches out and lays one hand on his shoulder, a firm, warm weight that comes without expectation or fear. “You could have. But you didn’t.”

“I-“

“You didn’t,” Leo interrupts, “and you never would. You’re a good man, Eskel, no matter what the world seems to think. Julian trusts you.” He laughs a little and shakes his head. “That counts for more around here than you’ll ever understand. And even if you hadn’t saved his life, you have his loyalty. Means you have ours, too.”

Leo stands up from the squat and makes a face. “My old bones can’t keep up these days,” he jokes. Eskel doesn’t answer. His face is set in a mask of concentration and something that looks a lot like pain. Leo sighs. “Get some sleep, son. We’ll have your things packed for you in the morning.”

He runs his hand through Eskel’s hair on the way out, ruffling it the way Lambert does when he wants to rile him up. Eskel sits until the fire burns down to embers.

…

His things are indeed packed the next morning. Amelie hands him a pack full to the brim with provisions and a pouch loaded with coin. Eskel accepts it with a heartfelt thanks. Leo sees him off at the stables.

“Tell Lord Julian we say hello,” he says. 

“I will.” Eskel swings up onto Scorpion and reaches down to clasp the old man’s hand. “I’ll keep him safe, Leo.”

“And yourself.”

“Aye, myself too. Perhaps I’ll see you again someday.”

Leo smiles at him. “Perhaps, master witcher. I look forward to it.”

Miles and miles later, with Lettenhove a speck behind him, Eskel realizes that he hasn’t contacted Jaskier. The songbird pendant burns against his chest. He raises a hand to it and clasps his palm around the little bird, holding it close. Jaskier would be overjoyed to learn of his reception at Lettenhove, Eskel is sure. He’d be proud of his servants for their kindness. 

But something in Eskel stills his hand. Leo’s words echo back to him, pleading for information about his lord’s deeds. He could have asked Jaskier himself, about all of it. He chose instead to ask a stranger. Eskel feels as though he has shared a sacred act with the people at Lettenhove. The exchange of secrets and stories by the light of the moon. 

Jaskier’s people can tell him of the visit themselves if they so choose, but Eskel wants to keep this memory to himself. This moment, when he was offered the chance to see his friend through different eyes. So he drops his hand from the pendant. He focuses on the road. He keeps his silence. 

The threads of destiny begin to weave together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we get to see a non-wolf witcher at Lettenhove! And more from my main hoe, Destiny herself. 
> 
> As always, comments/rants/thoughts are super appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience on this chapter. I pride myself on uploading regularly, but I got two new piercings and sleep has been...elusive. Who knew I rolled over so often? But I am rested now and re-hyped about this story, so I hope you all enjoy!

A medallion flashes between the alghoul’s bared teeth. The witcher it’s attached to rolls out from under the beast and strikes. He has to end it quickly. Already, the wound in his leg weighs him down. Already, the chunks of flesh missing from his shoulder and right arm make it difficult to swing his sword. 

The alghoul roars and dodges the attack, its tattered skin obscene in the moonlit crypt. Its stench mixes with the scent of fresh blood and fills the witcher’s senses. He growls and shakes it off, readjusting the grip on his sword before lunging again. The alghoul leaps and the witcher knocks it back with Aard. Stunned, the alghoul shakes itself. The witcher presses his advantage, rushing forward to run the beast clean through with several feet of cold, hard silver. It roars. It bleeds. It falls to the floor of the crypt, dead. 

Above it, his viper medallion flashing in the moon light, stands Letho of Gulet. 

He does not stand for long. Blood loss and burning pain nearly send him to his knees. Sheer force of will, and no small amount of spite, keep him on his feet and allow him to stumble out of the crypt. But willpower is no match for anatomy. The wounds overcome him before he can mount his horse and Letho collapses, dark blood seeping into the soil beneath him. 

It is not a fitting end for a slayer of kings. His life was glorious, dangerous. He has brought kingdoms to their knees, and how does he die? At the hands of some simple monster, like a witcher still wet behind the ears. Like all witchers do, eventually. Without glory or ceremony. They die in the dark. Alone. 

Letho feels cold close in around him, and he is afraid.

…

Destiny is a cruel mistress. She separates lovers seconds before they can find happiness. She sends men to die in meaningless wars for meaningless rulers. She ties people together, binds them so tightly that some spend their entire lives struggling to be free.

But sometimes, she has mercy. Sometimes, there is a girl, and there is a witcher, and Destiny sees fit to knock down a branch.

…

The girl sets out at noon. She rides her cart through the hottest hours of the day to the nearest town, hoping the market will be busy. If not, she will have to return home with a cart still full of her father’s carvings, and no one in the house will be pleased.

The market is packed. She sells out of product by dusk and steers her horses homeward, the empty cart behind them. It’s a long ride through the woods along a thin, gnarled path. She does not relish the journey. 

Halfway home, a branch from one of the ancient oaks cracks and falls across the path. The girl manages to hold in a scream, but her horses startle. One of them, the youngest, rears up and frightens the others into motion. They race off through the underbrush, aimless in their panic. The girl and her cart can only hold on. 

It is, perhaps, a miracle that they do not crash into any trees. A miracle that they discover another path, this one much older and much darker, leading through the forest to a clearing thick with the scent of blood. A miracle, indeed. Destiny laughs. 

There is another horse in the clearing. Behind it looms an old stone crypt, and at its feet bleeds a man. 

The girl knows to fear the dark things in the forest. She knows to run from beasts with claws and spines, to run home and call for her mother, and to listen as her mother calls for a witcher. This man has neither claws nor spines, though there is a truly impressive number of knives strapped to his armor. He’s dangerous, the girl is sure. A criminal, probably. A killer. 

But he is a man in need of help, and her mother taught her to do what is right. 

She struggles to get him onto the cart. The man is huge, his scarred head heavy on his shoulders. His biceps are nearly the size of her waist, and he is all dead weight. Limp and useless, but alive. She knows because she checked, with two fingers just beneath the jaw and a gentle pressure like her father showed her. 

Trying to pick him up will be a fruitless endeavor. She casts about for something to help and her eyes light on a bundle of rope in the back of her cart. It was used for holding down her father’s larger pieces on the trip to market, but it will work for this as well. 

The girl loops the rope underneath the man’s armpits, steadfastly ignoring the chunk missing from his shoulder, and attaches it to the rigging on her horses, disengaging them from the cart itself as she does. With a gentle nudge to their sides, the horses move forward. The man is dragged behind them. His shoulders hit the raised edge of the cart and the girl moves quickly to his feet, lifting him into place with a heave of effort. Wood scratches against the man’s wounds and he groans in his sleep. 

As soon as he is firmly within the bed of the cart, the girl reattaches her horses and eases the rope out from under his shoulders. She touches the reins, guiding the cart back to the mysterious path down which it came, fast as she can move without fear of losing her way. The man’s horse follows her through the forest. It follows her home to Lettenhove.

…

Letho crawls back from the grip of death. He kicks and screams all the way, fighting without weapons at the fire that threatens to consume his body. Pain bleeds through his fear and he clings to it. Pain means life. Letho is not ready to die.

A fresh wave of fire tears down his right shoulder. Letho arches up with a shout and is pushed back by two firm hands on his chest. He bucks them off, fear fueling his strength, filling his battered limbs with a last, desperate surge of adrenaline. 

“Hold him. Sweet Melitele, hold him down!”

More hands press against him, stronger this time. Someone curses next to his ear as he thrashes and the pressure against his chest grows until he’s forced to lie down. 

“Gods above, Maria. You said you dosed him.”

“I did! Half a phial, like you said.”

“Half a-“

Letho kicks out blindly. His foot connects and someone shouts, but the hands on his chest don’t move. 

“Damn it! Give him the rest, Maria.”

“The rest? We’ll kill him!”

“He’ll die if we don’t. We can’t treat him like this. Kuhn, Tarek- hold his head back.”

Unyielding hands clamp around Letho’s jaw and force his chin up. The movement sends blinding pain through his injured shoulder and he opens his mouth on a scream. Bitter liquid is poured down his throat before he can stop it. Darkness rises up once again.

…

The soft clatter of clay against wood rings through Lethos’ mind like the clanging of a bell, and the last of the darkness recedes. His mind is awake but he does not open his eyes, wary of alerting whatever made the noise that drew him from sleep. He inhales slowly and catalogues the scents in the air. Dust and straw, probably from the mattress underneath him. Blood- his own, not human- and layered above it the sharp, earthy smell of poultices and salves.

There is a soft exhale from somewhere to his right, followed by the rhythmic fall of cloth shoes against a wooden floor. Whoever is in the room with him is not likely to be a threat. Letho opens his eyes to see a middle-aged woman in a simple dress pouring a glass of water from a pitcher at the foot of his bed. She startles slightly when his gaze meets hers, but recovers quickly and comes to stand near his head. A satisfied smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. 

“Good to see you’re awake,” she says. “Thought we might have lost you for a while there.”

Letho tries to push himself up. Pain lances across his shoulder and sends him crashing down again with a grunt. 

“Oi,” the woman complains, “none of that, now. You’ll rip your stitches and I’ll have to summon Nael again. A skilled healer, that one, but she’s a right monster when she’s angry so you best be careful.” 

She goes to fiddle with a few vials of things at the end of the bed as Letho processes. Alghoul. Injury. Death. Or so he thought. 

“Where the fuck am I?”

“This is Lettenhove, witcher. The Old Sage Inn. I don’t rightly know where you were coming from or going to, but Nael’s lass found you in the woods with quite a bit o’ blood outside your body, so she brought you here. Fixed you up, though you threw quite a fit while they were doing it.”

He remembers voices. Healers, then. Letho spares a moment to feel sorry for whoever he kicked. 

“I was on a contract. Alderman of Bryson. That near here?”

“Bryson?” The woman helps Letho sit up, cautiously, and hands him a plate full of food. “Aye, it’s the nearest city over. Load of bastards and whore’s sons if you ask me.”

Letho grunts in acknowledgement and digs into the food. “Do you have my horse somewhere?”

“Downstairs in the stables. She’s well taken care of, I promise. Ingrid’s son has taken quite a shine to her.”

The woman takes the empty plate from Letho’s hands and offers him a glass of water. A wave of exhaustion crashes over him once it’s gone, like his body had only woken up long enough to eat and was once more demanding rest. His caretaker’s shrewd eyes picked up on it nearly at the same time as Letho himself. 

“Get some sleep, witcher. I’ll be here when you wake, and I’ll get Maria to check your bandages.”

She was true to her word. Letho drifted in and out of awareness for most of the morning. When he woke up again for good, there was a young woman, barely out of her teens, sitting at his bedside with a basket full of medical supplies. 

“I’ll ask that you don’t kick this time,” she says by way of greeting. “Aye?”

Letho nods. The girl leans over him to unwind the gauze at his shoulder, and Letho is struck with the sudden thought that this girl cannot possibly be a full healer. She’s an apprentice at most. They left an apprentice healer to deal with a witcher on her own. 

Nothing has torn in his sleep. The girl cleans and re-wraps his wounds before leaning back and staring at him with blatant curiosity. 

“What?” he snaps. 

“You kill monsters,” she says. Her voice is breathy with awe. “That’s why you were in the woods, right? To kill a monster?”

Every part of Letho feels wrong footed. Like he took a dive off a cliff and woke up in a world that looks like his, but isn’t. 

“What kind of monster was it?” the girl asks. 

“Alghoul.”

“Oh.” Her brown eyes go wide. “What’s an alghoul?”

Letho groans and leans his head back against the wall. Trust his luck to end up with a chatty healer’s apprentice. “A really fucking nasty ghoul,” he answers. 

The girl cocks her head and smiles at him. “Wicked.”

Surprise hits him upside the head and leaves him shaken. Letho remembers the days that a few curt words from him could send entire rooms of people running in fear. This girl doesn’t seem affected at all by his harsh tone, or the wounds he’s covered in. 

“Did you kill it?”

“Yes.”

Wonder lights her face. “With your sword? The silver one?”

“The silver one,” Letho agrees. 

The girl sighs dreamily. “Lord Julian told us all about the swords. Steel for men, silver for monsters, right? Different metals for different foes. I think the whole thing is very romantic.”

No one in their right mind would describe monster killing as romantic, much less the hatred and fear that come along with a witcher’s mutations. It’s half the reason he turned to king slaying. Life is so much easier when his morals are truly as dark as everyone assumes them to be. Making nice with the humans was always too much effort. 

But he can’t explain all that to this girl. He focuses instead on the piece of information she gave him. The bastard spreading stories about witchers. 

“Lord Julian?”

“He’s the local viscount.” The girl stands and busies herself with tidying up the room. “He’s not here very often, though. Too busy traveling with the White Wolf and writing new songs.”

The White Wolf. Geralt. 

Fucking _Geralt._

He and Letho did not part on good terms. Letho spared his life to pay off Geralt’s earlier kindness, but that was supposed to be it. Part as strangers, put the past behind them, and do their best never to see each other again. Letho tried his best, he really did. Years and years went by without a single thought of Geralt passing through his mind. And then came Nilfgaard. 

The rumors, when he heard them, were preposterous. People spoke of an entire army, wiped out by a handful of witchers in a single night. Some stories said there was only one witcher, some said four. The number of troops they slaughtered ranged from hundreds to thousands depending on who you asked, and how long it took them to die went from scant seconds to a few days. But all the rumors agreed on one thing; the soldiers died for daring to lay hands on the White Wolf’s bard. 

Letho was never one for believing all the horseshit mortals spewed about his fellow witchers, but these were too prevalent, and too consistent, to deny. Geralt, the bastard, had gone and murdered a bunch of fools to save his little troubadour. 

He laughed, thinking about it. All of Geralt’s pretty morals got thrown out the window when it really mattered. The Butcher of Blaviken, indeed. 

“Can’t believe everything you hear,” Letho says. 

“The Lord can be dramatic, but he’s not a liar.” She eyes him sternly. “You’d do best not to insult him around here. Julian is good to us, much better than most nobles would bother to be. You’ll end up with something worse than an alghoul on your hands if the wrong people hear you bad mouth him.”

“Never fucking called him anything,” Letho mutters, but he takes the advice to heart. No need to anger the people who saved his life. 

“See that you don’t,” the girl says. She leaves him there, too stunned by the insolence in her voice to respond. 

Evening comes, and with it more food, ale, and the deepest sleep Letho has had in months. The next day is much the same, as is the one after that. A steady diet of rest and as much food as he can eat has Letho back on his feet sooner than he expected. He ventures down to visit his horse on the fourth day, and is greeted with warm smiles by the patrons of the inn. 

Though the contract he picked up was from Bryson, the alghoul terrorized Lettenhove, too. Letho gets a few grateful slaps on the back and a friendly welcome for his troubles. The whole thing comes off feeling like a fever dream. Letho is off balance for days. 

When his wounds have healed enough for travel, he goes to settle up with the innkeeper. Nearly a week in the room, plus meals, care for his horse, and medical treatment is likely to empty his coin purse of its emergency reserves, but Letho is determined to pay off the debt. He doesn’t like to owe anyone anything- much less his life. 

The innkeeper charges him for the meals, but nothing more. And even that price is more than fair. He doesn’t add on the usual ‘witcher’ charge- when inns raise prices because they know they can, and because it acts as a decent deterrent to keep witchers away from civilization. 

“I owe you more than this,” Letho insists. 

“Consider it payment for the ghoul,” the innkeep tells him. “I saw that purse of yours, lad. I’m not going to empty your pockets for a service I offered freely. Wouldn’t be fair.”

They did take him in of their own free will, Letho admits. But they also brought him back from the brink of death, and such an act requires equal payment. 

The innkeeper disagrees. He turns down any further offer of coin, as does Nael, the healer. In the end, Letho gathers his things, mounts his horse, and rides up to the manor. 

A thin, distinguished looking old man answers Letho’s knock. He does not look in the least bit surprised to find a witcher on his doorstep. 

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I need to speak with your viscount.”

“Ah,” the man gives him a knowing smile. “I’m afraid Lord Pankratz is not here. Last I heard, he was somewhere in Temeria dealing with a nest of harpies.”

Fucking Geralt. 

The man continues, “But if you need anything, master witcher, I’m sure I can provide.”

It’s offered without expectation or demand. A simple, honest display of kindness from a stranger on behalf of his Lord. It’s trusting, and sweet, and it snaps the last thread of Letho’s fraying sanity. 

“What the fuck is wrong with this town?” he demands. Letho curls his hand into a fist and bares his teeth, waiting for the butler to react like a normal person and back away. Something feral roars within Letho when he does not. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Geralt of fucking Rivia sticks his cock in your Lord, and what? You all just open your doors to any witcher that waltzes along? Out of the kindness of your fucking hearts?”

The butler lifts his chin in defiance. “Pretty much.”

All the anger leaves Letho in a rush. This town has lost its collective mind, but he can’t help but admit that it’s…nice. To be welcomed. 

“Hell,” Letho says. “When will he be back?”

“I am not certain, sir. Lord Pankratz comes and goes as he pleases.”

That’s probably for the best. If the rumors are true, then Julian is traveling with Geralt, or perhaps one of the other wolf witchers. Best that Letho does not cross paths with them. 

But regardless of his aversion to seeing Geralt again, Letho feels as though he cannot leave without some sort of thank you. His morals are gray, yes, but he doesn’t want to burn bridges that cost him nothing. He’s not a complete piece of shit. 

Letho isn’t sure what makes him do it. Years later, when Jaskier presses him for the story, he will choose to blame impulse. Instinct. The precious few who know the truth will point to another culprit.

It is well known that people tied together by destiny will always find each other. What most remain ignorant of is this- destiny does not do the tying. The strings of destiny are omnipresent, unseen and unnoticed until they are needed. People tie themselves together. They grab the strings and weave their own noose. 

Eskel brought the threads of destiny to Lettenhove. When Letho pulls an enchanted dagger from his pack and offers it to the butler with a mutter of, “For your Lord, with my gratitude,” he ties the knot. A choice is made. A bond is formed. 

Destiny is pulled into place.

…

Months drag by. In the furthest reaches of Redania, Lambert falls asleep with Jaskier’s arm around his waist. Somewhere in Cintra, Eskel finishes off the last of the coin Leo gave him, and raises his mug in a silent toast of thanks. Geralt kills a werewolf in Temeria. He heads west.

Letho leaves Lettenhove no less confused, but pleased all the same. He tells the story of the small town in Kerack and its kind people only once, to a mercenary deep in his cups. A mercenary who, unbeknownst to Letho, is good friends with a witcher named Aiden. 

Word spreads. It moves with fluid grace from man to man, whispered on hushed breaths over cups of mead, handed over monstrous corpses to the next hunter who needs it. Rumors can be vicious things, but this one is treated carefully. The secret is passed on with reverence and caution, always between trusted allies, always in the dead of night. 

Lettenhove’s blacksmith sees a marked uptick in dangerous strangers from out of town, men with brutal scars and witcher medallions. With all the extra business, he can’t bring himself to mind. 

Nael finds herself healing more monster-inflicted wounds in one month than she used to see in a decade. Her patients are foul-mouthed and crude, but they pay fairly. After she mentions the limitations of Lettenhove’s forest, they begin to bring her herbs. Strange remedies and rare ingredients from the farthest reaches of the continent, handed over with hesitant smiles and stilted offers of thanks. 

The townsfolk learn to direct visiting witchers to the Lord’s manor. Leo meets them there, ready with a hot bath and a meal more satisfying than anything available on the road. He holds fast to decorum whenever possible, but some nights, when the house is quiet and he has convinced the latest guest to tell him tales of their adventures, he lets propriety go. It sets the witchers at ease. 

The manor’s servants all refuse coin for their help, so their guests find ways to be useful. They split enough firewood for the entire manor. They aid the stable master with caring for the household’s horses, and charm the serving girls by carrying sacks of flour and potatoes into the kitchens without so much as breaking a sweat. Rarely do their visits overlap, so each witcher picks up where the last left off.

A pack of drowners a few miles out disappears before a contract can be posted for it. Rumors of a griffin vanish when the beast goes missing, though no one in town knows where it could have gone. No vampire in their right mind will go within a week’s ride of the town. 

Leo places Letho’s strange gift in an empty set of drawers in Julian’s room, ready for his return. It is soon joined by various tokens from other witchers passing through. They leave protective talismans and monster teeth, potions and charmed objects from their run-ins with sorcerers, and anything else they think the mysterious viscount might find interesting. The pile grows with every passing month, a veritable treasure horde of bewildered gratitude from men who do not know how to express their thanks any other way. 

Time ticks on. Soon, the last leaves of autumn fall. Letho of Gulet finds himself in Kerack and makes his way to Lettenhove. Leo greets him at the door. It is Letho’s fourth time at the manor. For all that witchers tend to avoid connections, he enjoys returning here when he can. Leo has become something of a friend. 

This time, Letho brings with him a pair of magic chalices worth their weight in gold and a pile of winter clothes that he knows will fit most of the servants. His tongue has been tempered by time and kindness, so his words come out more barbed than biting. He begs of Leo a favor. 

They strike up a deal. Lodgings and meals in exchange for assistance with repairs and care for the horses. It’s not equal by any measure, but Letho’s suspicion of Lettenhove’s miraculous good will has been slowly ground away by desperation and consistency. As it turns out, a reputation as a Kingslayer does not earn a man many friends. Letho’s relief outweighs his fear of ulterior motives. 

People across the continent brace themselves for the coming months of cold and hunger. High in the mountains of Kaedwen, a young sorceress and her mother practice spells to warm the halls. They expect the arrival of three witchers and their bard, but snow comes early and blocks the path to the keep. The witchers are all too far to make it in time. New plans are drawn up. A tentative offer is extended across the magical bond of four songbird pendants and is met by enthusiastic agreement. Each of them is in a different corner of the world at the moment, but all are certain they can make it safely to Kerack before the weather turns dangerous. 

Winter will soon settle over Lettenhove. Letho settles in with it.

Jaskier rides homeward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to put this at the beginning because I wanted Letho to be a surprise, but y'all, FUCK CANON. Letho and Geralt have all this cool backstory, but so much of it is tied to Geralt's relationship with Yennefer that it does not fit into this 'verse at all. Suffice to say that Letho is still a Kingslayer, and he and Geralt still fought, but I'm not going into too much more detail than that because the events of this fic literally cannot happen if canon is obeyed. 
> 
> Anyway, timelines are hard. I hope you guys liked this chapter, and, as always, please leave thoughts/questions/rants in the comments. It's so much fun for me to interact with you, and people always offer the best plot bunnies/headcanons that an author could ask for!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current mood: listening to Not Yet/Love Run on loop and crying like a fucking baby.

Jaskier pulls his coat in closer around him at he makes his way up the long drive to his manor. True winter is still a week or two away, but it’s already cold enough in Lettenhove to freeze his balls off. He spares a moment to regret never getting his own horse. It’s not a problem when he’s with one of his witchers, they’ve warmed up enough to let him ride with them, when he needs, but every time they’re separated he realizes anew just how much he hates traveling long distance on foot. The cold only makes it worse. 

He notes with pleasure that the manor is as well kept as ever. Better, in fact. The outside is immaculate, paint clean and lawn orderly. A large pile of firewood is visible along the side of the great house, meaning his servants are well stocked for the cold nights to come. It warms his heart to see. 

Leo doesn’t know he’s coming home for the winter. Nor does he know that Jaskier will soon be joined by the witchers he has heard so much about. Jaskier doesn’t expect that to be a problem. Leo is an old-fashioned man, a traditionalist in many ways, but he has a kind heart. He’ll undoubtedly come to love Geralt, Lambert, and Eskel as much as Jaskier does. 

A grin spreads across his face as Jaskier climbs the short flight of steps to knock on the door. It’s more of a courtesy than anything- he doesn’t expect Leo to come running quite yet. He can let himself in. 

One great push sends the pair of double doors swinging open. They part in unison, letting a blast of cool air into the manor and providing a suitably dramatic entrance for a bard of Jaskier’s status. He steps into his foyer and breathes in deep. For all he loves the road, and he does, he loves it to pieces, it’s nice to be back home. 

Jaskier calls out Leo’s name as he heads toward the main sitting room, eager to thaw out in front of a fire. He sheds his coat as he goes, pulling off all his winter gear until he’s standing in a pair of blue traveling silks, his lute in one hand and his pack of medicines and basic supplies in the other. 

There is someone in the sitting room when he bursts through the doors, but it isn’t his butler. This man is much larger, much balder, and equipped with far more knives than Leo would ever be. He has a scar across his head and a snake medallion at his neck. 

A witcher.

…

Lord Julian is nothing like what Letho expected. He’s younger, for one thing. Brighter. There’s a light dusting of snow in his tousled hair and he’s covered from head to toe in flashy, expensive, entirely impractical silk. He stands in the doorway with an almost comical expression of surprise; eyes wide and blinking in shock, a lute dangling dangerously from the lax fingers of one hand.

“Um,” Julian says, his voice high and lilting, “hello.”

“Hello.”

Julian steps fully into the room and drops his bags on the couch opposite Letho. He turns to the witcher with his brows drawn together and meets his eyes head on. “Sorry,” he says with a little shake of his head, “but who are you?”

Letho stares him down. Silence stretches between them for far longer than should be comfortable, but Julian doesn’t seem to mind. Geralt must have acclimated him well to extended silence. Finally, Julian’s fingers start to twitch at his sides and Letho fights down a surge of amusement. 

“Letho of Gulet,” he says. 

In the decades he has walked the earth, Letho has received many reactions from people hearing his name for the first time. Those who have not heard of him tend to smile politely and forget it soon after. Those who know his name, or rather, his reputation, either run in fear or offer him a job. 

This man does neither. 

Julian’s eyes light up with unrestrained glee and he bounces forward to clasp one of Letho’s hands. Letho starts at the contact but does not pull away, too swept up by the fascination in Julian’s face to bother thinking about anything else.

“You’re the _Kingslayer_ ,” Julian says. He pulls his hand away and runs it distractedly through his hair, dislodging the last few flakes of snow as he does. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Decades of betrayals and regicide, of the guilty and innocent all dead by his hand, flash behind Letho’s eyes. He is not ashamed of the choices he has made. While some may call him evil, he thinks of himself as practical. Every man he ever killed died for a reason. Innocent or not. 

Julian doesn’t give him time to respond. He stands just a few inches closer than most humans would dare, staring with unabashed curiosity. “You must have _so many_ stories. I’ve heard talk of you, of course, it is my duty as a bard to know these things, but I never thought I’d have the opportunity to-“ 

His sentence cuts off and he steps back, blinking wildly as he runs his eyes from Letho’s head to his feet. The gaze is burning while it lasts, but soon enough Julian is turning to take in the rest of the room, his expression uncomprehending as he takes in the details of his own sitting room. He wrinkles his nose at the blazing fire and snaps his eyes back to Letho’s.

“What are you doing in my house?”

Julian doesn’t know. 

He _doesn’t know._

And if he doesn’t know about Letho staying the winter, then he won’t know about the rest. Not the servants’ hospitality, not the rumors, not the pile of gifts squirreled away somewhere, and certainly not the inconsistent yet incredibly steady procession of witchers who have taken to using his manor as a home base. 

It’s a lot to explain, and Letho is not a man of many words.

“Wintering here,” he answers, because it’s true. 

Julian’s mouth drops open, then closes with a plop, then opens again. Letho isn’t sure what reaction he’s expecting. A scolding, probably, filled with indignation and understandable confusion. Perhaps a punch in the nuts. Letho doesn’t usually anticipate violence from humans, but he’s alone and barely armed, and this man looks bold enough to do it. Not that he could win that fight. It just looks like he might try. 

“Well,” Julian says, and Letho braces himself for a punch. “Alright then.”

He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move. All Letho can do is stare at Julian, and all Julian can do is stare back, until a log in the fire gives a loud pop and sends up sparks, shattering the moment into a thousand tiny pieces. 

“I assume you’ve got Leo’s permission, then? Probably sat you down with a cup of lavender tea and gave you the lay of the land, where to go, who not to mess with, no swords on the nice couches and all that?”

Letho can only nod. Such a conversation did occur, though it was several months prior to now- after Letho’s first purposeful stop in Lettenhove. 

“Jasmine,” he says. 

Julian raises an eyebrow at him. “Sorry?”

“The tea,” Letho explains. “It wasn’t lavender. It was jasmine.”

“Oh.” Julian takes a second to process that before his face goes soft with longing. “Jasmine tea sounds _lovely_ right about now. I haven’t had a proper hot meal in days, would you believe it? Trekked here all the way from Temeria to beat the snows, didn’t have time to stop anywhere nice.” He shoots Letho an empathetic look that sets the witcher completely off balance. “I’m sure you can relate. ‘The Path is hard,’ and all that.”

Letho is about to respond when a polite cough from the doorway makes both men turn. Leo stands just beyond the threshold, impeccably put together as always, his face slightly pale as he realizes that Julian ran into Letho before he had the opportunity to explain anything. 

“My Lord.” He sweeps into a low bow, eyes trained respectfully on the floor. 

“Leo!” Julian crosses to him in two great strides and sweeps the butler into a hug. Tension bleeds out of his shoulders and he slumps forward against his servant, eyes closed as though all the horrors in the world are in the room with them, just beyond the circle of Leo’s arms. “It has been a long year, my friend.”

“It has,” the older man agrees. He steps back to give Julian a once-over. “You seem well, my Lord.”

“I am well. Lean and mean and blissfully happy. Oh, the tales I will spin you. But first-“ He looks to Letho and claps his hands once, as though a decision has been made. “Drinks. Hot drinks, please, because I have been traveling in far too little clothing for far too long. Food, too, if it isn’t too much to ask of Cook so late at night.” Julian grins at the both of them. “You’ve been busy in my absence, Leo. I insist you tell me everything.”

…

Much, much later, when the three men have consumed enough food for ten and at least two bottles of wine, Leo goes to bed. He bows good night to Julian and nods to Letho, leaving his Lord and the witcher to talk amongst themselves.

Jaskier, for his part, is having a grand old time. The knowledge of what his servants have been up to for the past year had settled like a new cloak over his shoulders as they ate. His initial shock has faded away. In its place burns fierce pride. Geralt and the others are a few days behind him, and Jaskier cannot wait to show them what his people have built. 

Letho, unsurprisingly, is not one for idle chatter. He grunts and swears in a way that reminds Jaskier of his first days on the road with Geralt- punch first, ask questions later. But he is kind enough to Leo, and, like every witcher Jaskier has met thus far, he is deeply, utterly starved for affection. 

He looks at Jaskier like a threat. Jaskier is sure he would feel more comfortable with a blade pointed at his throat than he is with casual kindness. He and Leo seem to have built something of a friendship, and Jaskier’s arrival has upset the balance of things. No doubt Letho is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Jaskier to pull out the knife he’s been hiding and take back all of Leo’s pretty promises. 

Jaskier wonders how long it will take to dissuade him of that notion. Convincing Geralt that he wasn’t one for backstabbing took months. Lambert and Eskel were easier, but Jaskier thinks that their inherent trust in Geralt’s judgment is to credit for how quickly they warmed to him. Letho has no such connection. He sees Jaskier as an unknown variable, and Jaskier knows from experience that the only way to knock down a witcher’s defenses is with time, determination, and an ocean’s worth of stubbornness. 

He smiles to himself as he takes a sip of wine. Time, determination, and stubbornness. Three things an immortal bard has in spades. 

“You said you were wintering here,” he says. “You’re welcome, of course, but might I ask why?”

Letho’s gaze is suspicious. Jaskier meets it with a grin. 

“Why do you care?” the witcher demands. 

“Well, I know the Wolf school has Kaer Morhen. I figured Viper would have something similar. So I’m curious how you ended up at Lettenhove, of all places.”

“I had nowhere else to go,” Letho says. 

It is both an honest answer and an avoidance. He has revealed nothing about his witcher school while revealing something personal, and painful, about himself. Jaskier knows it’s the kind of line that tends to end conversations. No doubt it is meant to end this one.

But Jaskier has never known how to take a hint, and he isn’t about to start now. 

“Burned a lot of bridges, have you? I know the feeling.”

Letho’s glare is acidic. “Don’t compare us, bard. You have no idea who I am.”

“Letho of Gulet,” Jaskier shoots back, “the famed Kingslayer. I know your deeds. I know the whispers that follow at your heels. I know the fear that circles through a court when you’re in town, how kings raise their guard and ladies clutch their purses tighter.” He pauses his tirade for another sip of wine, steadying himself. “And I know that most of it is bullshit.”

“Bullshit?” Letho echoes. “You’re a bigger idiot than you seem, if you don’t believe the rumors you hear. I’m no Geralt, bard. Whatever sweet ideas you have in your head about witchers, you’re wrong.”

“It’s all true, then?” Jaskier lets bitterness seep in alongside the disbelief in his voice. “You’re an unfeeling, uncaring beast like all the stories say you are?”

“I’ve killed people,” Letho grits out. “Innocents.”

Jaskier waves a hand. “We’ve all killed people.”

“You haven’t.”

“You have no idea who I am.”

“You’ve killed a man?” Letho asks with disbelief. 

“Several,” Jaskier admits. “Bandits and enchanted townsfolk alike. In self-defense, yes, but I’ve killed all the same. No amount of rationalization will change the fact that I took a life, and my reasons don’t make my actions any better than yours.”

“I slit a man’s throat while he slept.”

“Did you do it without reason?” Jaskier leans forward in his seat and rests his arms on his knees. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me you killed him in cold blood, for nothing but your own benefit?” He doesn’t give Letho time to answer. “And even if you did, it doesn’t make you a beast. I travel with a man called the Butcher of Blaviken, for fuck’s sake. I know the difference between monsters and men. Monsters don’t feel remorse, yet here you sit, telling me your mistakes as if I can absolve you.” 

He is at least five feet away from the witcher, but somehow Jaskier still manages to crowd him. To loom into his space and take up his air. Jaskier sets his wine down and leans the rest of his weight on his forearms, eyes locked on Letho’s. “Name your sins,” he says. “They will not outnumber my own.”

Letho’s gaze slides to the side, telling Jaskier all he needs to know. “I’ve stolen, the witcher says. “Taken down convoys, stripped them bare, and left their owners to fend for themselves on the road.”

“I’ve slept with more married women than I can count,” Jaskier counters. “Some men, too, though the wives are less likely to come at me with pitchforks than the husbands are.” 

“I have broken nearly every oath I ever made. Lied to men’s faces and turned on them when it suited me.”

Jaskier schools his face into neutrality. It is clear that his betrayals weigh heavily on Letho's mind. The sin Jaskier offers up must respond in kind.

“My mother lay on her deathbed for months and I did not return to her. I ignored her letters. I steered Geralt away from Kerack on our travels to let her die here, alone.”

That gets Letho’s attention. Jaskier can tell he’s curious, can tell he wants to ask why. He braces himself for the inevitable question. 

“I shot down a bird for singing too loud, once.” 

Jaskier can’t help his bark of laughter. It’s a strange confession- said with the dry, slightly mocking tone that Jaskier has come to associate with a witcher doing his best to tell a joke. Grateful for the attempt at levity, he picks up on the game and fires back. 

“I tried to use a djinn wish to kill one of my rivals- the dreaded Valdo Marx, may the bastard’s dick shrivel up and fall off.”

It’s Letho’s turn to laugh, now, a sound only half human and definitely disused. “I had a witch curse a lord’s son into only talking in riddles. Drove the court half mad.”

Mirth gleams in Jaskier’s eyes. “Clever. I’d get Yennefer to do the same to Geralt, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t get laid for a month.” 

The mention of Geralt causes Letho’s face to shutter closed. Jaskier notes the change in mood with trepidation, but he holds his tongue and waits for the witcher to speak first. 

“The White Wolf and I did not part ways as friends,” Letho says. 

“I gathered as much. What happened?”

Letho shakes his head. “Too much history to recount, bard. Suffice to say he thinks I’m an immoral cunt and I think he has a righteous stick up his ass so long it reaches his damn throat.”

Jaskier takes the imagery in stride. He’s heard worse insults hurled at Geralt over the years. “It seems you’re both wrong, then. You’re hardly an immoral man, and the only thing up Geralt’s ass these days is me.”

“And what the fuck do you know of my morals?” Letho spits. He has leaned forward as well, muscles rippling as he makes a subtle show of strength, invading Jaskier’s space just as Jaskier did his. 

“Plenty,” Jaskier says. Though the two are nearly chest-to-chest, he does not back away. “Leo trusts you, and I trust his judgment on such matters without question. But even if he were not here, I would know something of your morals.”

Letho snarls in challenge. 

“Surely you’ve seen the town,” Jaskier continues. “You know Lettenhove is small- full of traders and farmers, not warriors. You know as well as I that no man within ten miles could best you in a fight.” He spreads his arms wide, to indicate the town. “A truly amoral man would kill the servants once they let you in. Send a message to the townspeople that a new lord has taken up residence, slit my throat as soon as I walk in the door, stay here in the lap of luxury as long as you like and slip away some morning without conflict or repercussions.”

“It would be easy,” Letho agrees. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Do it, then,” Jaskier orders. 

“Do what?”

“Kill me.” Jaskier stands and takes a single step forward, bringing him fully into Letho’s space. He isn’t quite sure what he’s doing, isn’t sure what he hopes to gain by challenging a man capable of regicide, but something about it feels right. “I’m unarmed,” he taunts, “and I know you have at least one knife on you right now. Your boot, perhaps? Come on, show me.”

Ever so slowly, Letho reaches down. He slides a dagger from its sheath in his boot, carefully concealed by the fall of his loose pants, and is met with a manic grin from the bard in front of him. 

“I was right,” Jaskier says gleefully. “You witchers are always armed.”

Before Letho can properly react, Jaskier reaches down, grabs ahold of his wrist, and moves them so the tip of Letho’s dagger is nestled in the hollow of Jaskier’s throat. “Go on,” he urges. “If you’re such a beast. What’s a puny little viscount to a predator like you, huh? Go on, _Kingslayer._ Kill me.”

Were Letho a lesser man, his hand would shake. As it stands, he holds himself so perfectly still that one might mistake him for a statue. The dagger hovers a hairsbreadth from Jaskier’s skin, yet his breath does not change cadence, nor does his heartbeat race. He meets Letho’s eyes with calm defiance and puts himself at the mercy of a killer. 

Letho lowers the blade. 

“That’s what I thought,” Jaskier breathes. “You’re no more of a monster than I am, Kingslayer. You just have a more interesting title.”

With that, he backs away completely, drains his goblet of wine, and goes to bed. Letho stares after him for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the hype is real in the comments for Letho and Geralt to meet, and I promise, next chapter ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have zero goddamn reason for why this is two months late. Blame the plague, guys. 
> 
> But the good news is, I have my mojo back and am super excited to continue this story! Thanks to everyone who is following this- your interest in it and all the super sweet comments were a brilliant motivation for kicking myself out of my funk. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations!

Jaskier stumbles downstairs in the early morning light, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he collapses into a chair at the breakfast table. Across the room, Letho raises his head and nods. The feeling of cold steel still lingers at Jaskier’s throat. He takes a long drink of his tea, uncaring how hot it is, and allows the quiet sanctity of home to settle under his skin. 

Daring a witcher to kill him was, perhaps, not his best decision. Even so, Jaskier cannot bring himself to regret it. His time on the Path has taught him the true meaning of fear. The pain of a whip across his back. The dark gleam of blood on Geralt’s armor. Silence where there should be the voices of his friends, ever present in his mind. 

He has faced worse than Letho of Gulet, and he will again. 

“Morning,” Jaskier greets. He registers the surprise on Letho’s face and steadfastly ignores it. If they are to spend the winter together, Jaskier is determined to make them friends. And friendship, as Leo taught him, begins with civility. 

Letho grunts. There is work to be done, then. 

“How did you sleep?”

Silence. 

Jaskier feels his civility slip a bit. It has been decades since Geralt was this unresponsive. He seems to have lost his patience for it. 

“It’s going to be a miserable fucking winter if you insist on communicating like an animal.” Letho turns his way, to grunt again probably, but Jaskier plows ahead. “And don’t act like you can’t speak as a civilized person. Don’t even try it.”

A beat passes. And another. And another. Jaskier is about to storm off in a suitably dramatic huff when Letho speaks. 

“Fine.” At Jaskier’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates, “I slept fine.”

“Well.” Jaskier settles back into his chair, pleased. “That’s lovely. I’m happy to be back in a real bed after so long, as I’m sure you understand. The road takes its toll on my old bones.”

Letho’s glare is acidic. “You’re twenty at most.”

“And they say witchers can’t be charmers. It’s the elf blood in me, dear. Does wonders for the skin.”

…

The bard never stops. He isn’t silent, he isn’t still, and he seems to have no concept of fear. After breakfast he orders Letho about with a flick of the hand and an expression that accepts no argument. It leads to a morning spent chopping wood and helping some servants hunt down a few sheep that went missing from a local flock.

At lunch, they eat together on the couch. Letho says little, but he is happy to listen to Julian ramble on about the ladies of the court and his dealings with them in years gone past. He gets so swept up in the rhythm of Julian’s voice that he almost doesn’t notice two silk clad legs swinging up into his lap. Almost. 

Julian doesn’t seem to care. He relaxes back fully against one edge of the sofa without a worry in the world, legs draped over Letho like a glorified footrest.

“Ever been to Temeria?” he asks. 

“Yes.” 

Of course he has been to Temeria. Julian, Letho suspects, often asks obvious questions to draw him into conversation. Letho isn’t sure what concerns him more- the fact that the ploy is so simple, or the fact that it often works.

“Did you like it there?”

It takes him a long time to answer. Did he like it there? Letho isn’t sure. He showed up, he killed a monster, he got his coin, and he left. The villages looked like villages always do. The people acted like people always do. He doesn’t remember Temeria all that well, and even if he did, his focus has been completely ruined by the heat of Julian’s body next to his. By the weight of him. 

“Warm,” Letho says. “It was warm there. Pleasant. Mild.”

Julian beams at him, warmer in Kerack’s miserable winter than Temeria could ever hope to be. 

“I’d kill for that kind of weather right now,” he jokes. 

_I would kill for you,_ Letho thinks. Then he thinks it again. He turns the thought around in his mind until the truth of it is undeniable. And when he realizes that the pain in his chest is dangerously close to tenderness, he throws Julian’s legs off, sets his plate on the table with a clatter, and leaves.

…

Geralt arrives the next morning.

…

A familiar growl wakes Jaskier up as it ripples down the connection between his pendant and Geralt’s.

_I’m putting Roach in the stables. Come meet me._

In this moment, Jaskier realizes three things. 

The first is that he really, really missed Geralt’s voice. Even a few weeks of being apart take their toll, and hearing his lover’s voice after so long in silence sends a bolt of joy straight through him. 

The second is that he could have been talking to Geralt this entire time. They usually tend not to use the pendants much for fear of an unnecessary distraction during a fight, but with winter closing in neither Geralt nor his brothers have been taking contracts. There was no need for the silence. 

The third and most concerning realization is that, due to their unnecessary silence, he hasn’t told Geralt anything recently. Specifically, he hasn’t told Geralt about _Letho._

Which. Is bad?

_“The White Wolf and I did not part ways as friends.”_

Definitely bad. Earth shatteringly bad. In fact, it’s so bad that Jaskier willingly gets out of bed before dawn. He scrambles to sit up and casts about for something respectable to wear. If he can catch Geralt before he and Letho run into each other, everything will be fine. All he needs is a chance to explain.

…

Neither witcher gives him a chance. A crash echoes from his front hall and Jaskier flies down the stairs, only one shoe on his feet. He rounds the corner and is met with the sight of two killers nearly at each other’s throats. Letho has a poker from the fireplace in lieu of a proper weapon. Its tip is pointed across the room at Geralt, and Geralt is…

Beautiful. That’s the word that springs to Jaskier’s mind before any other. His lover’s hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, white wisps falling down to frame his face. He’s thin, too thin, from the winter road and weeks without anyone pestering him to eat properly, but still so strong. His sword is leveled at Letho, his back set protectively to the doorway Jaskier walks through, as if Geralt knew he was coming and wanted to make sure he didn’t end up in harms way. 

“Go back upstairs, Jaskier.”

Oh, Geralt. Such a fool, even after all these years. 

“I will not-“ Jaskier protests. 

“ _Go._ This is going to get messy.”

“With your blood,” Letho sneers. “Or did you forget how our last meeting ended?”

Jaskier can see how this conversation is going to end. With insults layered on insults, and old wounds picked apart with ruthless precision. They will lay into each other until nothing is left. 

His mind screams out for him to stop them, but how can he? Bloodlust rises red as the dawn in Geralt’s eyes. The same expression is mirrored in Letho’s- the promise of an end to an ancient grudge. Jaskier is weaponless against that. Powerless. Useless. 

Except. 

Except for the fact that Geralt’s back is to him. Exposed and vulnerable, the way killers are never meant to be. Because he trusts Jaskier. Loves him. 

“This meeting will not end like that one,” Geralt promises, and Jaskier steps forward. 

He sets his hand on Geralt’s back, just so he won’t be startled. Letho’s angry snarl does nothing to dissuade him. Had the Kingslayer wanted to harm him, it would have been far easier to do so last night. Jaskier keeps in contact with Geralt as he slowly circles around to the left, sliding underneath the reach of his sword to settle their bodies together. 

“Geralt,” he murmurs. “Letho is my guest. Put the sword down.” 

Shock flits over Geralt’s expression, but it is quickly replaced by rigid determination. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Jaskier holds back his sigh. He leans forward, rejoicing silently as Geralt’s left arm drops from its defensive position to wrap around his waist. Inch by inch, Jaskier slides right, until Geralt’s field of vision is filled with him and only him. Across the room, Letho falls silent. 

“Put the sword down.” Jaskier’s voice is a rumble on the edge of a breath, ghosting like summer’s air over his lover’s cheek. “He is no threat to you, love. Put the sword down.”

He does not wait for Geralt to protest. Jaskier kisses him. Wildly. Hungrily. It burns like wildfire. He forgets about the looming fight and focuses on nothing but Geralt. The steady heat of him, the rasp of his stubble against Jaskier’s clean shaven cheeks. It has been far too long since this man was last in his arms. 

Nipping at Geralt’s lower lip, Jaskier slides his palms down his neck and across his chest. The muscles there are familiar territory, though not usually with this many layers between them. Geralt is slow to respond. Ever so subtly, he relaxes. Jaskier allows himself a small smile when he pulls back to breathe before leaning in again for a kiss harsher and more consuming than the last. 

One arm tightens around him. In the heat of their embrace, Jaskier senses his moment. He reaches out slowly, sensually, and runs his hand down Geralt’s outstretched arm. A single tap of Jaskier’s finger to his wrist sends Geralt’s sword crashing to the floor. 

Quick as a flash, Jaskier pulls out of his lover’s arms and rounds on Letho. “Drop the fucking poker,” he orders. 

It falls. 

Jaskier reaches back to brush his knuckles against Geralt’s cheek, trying his best to ignore the hurt and confusion in Geralt’s eyes. Time enough to assuage that later. His hand falls to his side once more. 

“Never again,” Jaskier says firmly. “There will be no fights. No weapons. No bloodshed. I know witchers have little respect for propriety at the best of times, but both of you are under my roof for the winter, and that means guest rites apply. The first witcher to harm the other will find himself thrown out of here before he can draw his fucking sword. Is that clear?”

Reluctantly, both men nod.

“Aye,” Letho agrees. “I could hardly reward your hospitality by killing your whore.”

“Haven’t needed coin for a fuck in years,” Geralt says. “Doubt you can claim the same.”

“Right!” Jaskier interrupts. “This has been a lovely reunion. Very exciting. Just what I needed to wake up to this morning, honestly. Geralt?” He turns to his witcher and gestures at the stairs. “To our room please, darling. I’ll draw us a bath. Letho, go back to your brooding, or whatever it is you were doing in here. Try not to threaten anyone else before breakfast.”

And with that, the truce is formed.

…

Geralt rode through the night to get here. He was too close to wait, too near Jaskier’s soft smiles and lullabies to sleep without him. Roach didn’t protest. She simply ran on, carrying him easily past the houses of the town and up the hill to Jaskier’s manor. If only he had known what waited for him inside.

Seeing Letho was a shock. It dragged back memories long abandoned. From a life before Jaskier, before Yennefer and Ciri and everything else that his life has become. His old mistakes stood before him in the one place he was supposed to be safe, and Geralt drew his sword. 

Jaskier’s reaction burned deeper than the poker ever could have. It was a quiet betrayal. A gentle twist of the knife, made all the more painful by the fact that Geralt simply does not understand it. A guest, Jaskier had said. Letho of Gulet, the Kingslayer, a man who once held the tip of his sword to Geralt’s throat, is Jaskier’s guest. 

He turns that fact around in his mind while Jaskier calls servants to make them a bath. Asking questions won’t be necessary. Jaskier can feel his confusion, can sense his hurt. Answers spill from his lips unprompted. 

“I didn’t know he was here at first, either. He was just sitting there when I got home. Leo had to explain everything.” Jaskier’s fingers fall to the straps of Geralt’s armor and undo the buckles with practiced ease. “Turns out my people have been letting witchers stay here when they pass through. They heard all my stories about you and figured I’d be upset if they turned any of your brothers away. It sort of spiraled from there.” He huffs out a breath. “I could hardly discourage them, Geralt. I’m actually quite proud of them for it.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Jaskier winces. “I didn’t think to.”

“You _didn’t think_ to-“

“Geralt, please-“

“Any sort of warning, Jaskier. One fucking word to tell me-“

“ _Please._ ”

Geralt falls silent. 

“Not telling you was a mistake. I’ll willingly admit that.” Jaskier drops his forehead to press against Geralt’s chest. He is shaking. “It was thoughtless of me. But it happened, and I did what I could to deal with the consequences. Please, love, you have to understand. I couldn’t stand there and watch you two kill each other.”

Geralt can’t hold him. Not yet. The cold of Jaskier’s loss still lingers, the chill as he stepped away to make peace with an enemy. 

“He could not have killed me. Not with your life on the line.”

Something unnamable fills Jaskier’s eyes. “You can’t know that. He beat you once before. Even if he couldn’t kill you now, there’s no guarantee that you wouldn’t be injured.” 

“You defended him,” Geralt mutters. 

“He's not a threat.” Jaskier rests his palms on either side of Geralt’s face, pleading. “My servants have spent weeks with him over the past year. They trust him not to harm them, so I do as well.”

“He threatened me with a fire poker.”

“Before or after you drew your sword?”

Geralt doesn’t remember. All he knows is that the sight of an enemy witcher within striking distance brought a weapon to his hand. Instinct left little room to wonder about who drew first. 

“I don’t expect you to like him,” Jaskier says. “But he needs a place to stay for the winter, and he has given me no reason not to welcome him. Whatever grudge you hold against him is long past.”

“You cannot trust him.” Geralt drops his hands to Jaskier’s hips, mostly because he cannot wait any longer. Having his lover so near is too large a temptation, argument or not. “He is a man without morals. If you knew the things he has done, you would not welcome him.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “You, of all people, should understand regret. Is it so impossible to believe that he’s changed?”

“He is a killer.”

“As are you.” The gentle press of Jaskier’s body undercuts his harsh words. “Would you have me judge you on your past, Geralt? Without knowing your reasons or regrets, would you let me decide your character based on the things you have done?” He shakes his head again. “They call him Kingslayer. They called you Butcher. I am not inclined to believe the labels of men.” 

Flashes of blood spatter. The gleam of a sword, deep in the gut of an innocent. Screams in the marketplace. 

Yes, Geralt understands regret. 

“Fine. I will not attack him again.” Geralt drops a kiss underneath Jaskier’s jaw, offering forgiveness. “But I make no promises about insults.”

A sigh escapes his lover’s lips. “Thank you.”

Geralt hums. He runs his hands up under Jaskier’s shirt in a dragging tease and moves them both back to the bed, kicking his shoes off as they go. The bath is getting cold, but neither man cares. They have lost time to make up for.

…

Hours later, his pendant is the only shred of clothing still left on Geralt’s body. Sleeping soundly next to him, Jaskier is in a similar state. His metal songbird lies above the monster tooth necklace that Geralt made him all those years ago in Skellige. It’s just as horrid as the day he first put it on, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind.

Geralt reaches out to run a hand through his hair, wondering at the softness of the strands that slip between his fingers. Jaskier hardly stirs. His trust in Geralt is complete and unwavering, even in sleep. Even after all Geralt has done- all the killing and betrayals, the mistakes and words thrown like javelins- Jaskier trusts him without question. Perhaps it is time he returned that faith. 

There in the dark, with one hand stroking Jaskier’s hair and his mind firmly made up, Geralt closes his fist around the pendant at his throat. He offers his brothers the warning Jaskier forgot. 

_Letho is here. We aren’t allowed to kill him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Questions? General gay rants? Yell at me in the comments!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick chapter because I'm getting my groove back and wrote this on my long ass flight to California. Enjoy!

Destiny likes to offer men choices. Unclear as it may be through mortal eyes, they are there all the same. Some are too small for anyone to notice their impact- a kind word here or there, the decision to buy from one farmer over another. Other choices bring castles crumbling down. 

Geralt has seen more than his fair share of cataclysmic decisions. Far too often, he has chosen wrong. 

The world has barely begun a long afternoon when he awakes, Jaskier by his side. It should be an afternoon like any other, but something is off. The air is heavier than normal. His heart beats slow, even for a witcher, thudding away a steady rhythm as his chest rises and falls within the moment. A fragile moment. 

He senses the hands of fate on his shoulders. 

Jaskier will sleep until the evening, Geralt is sure. Any excitement before dawn is bound to knock him out for a day. His heartbeat is louder that Geralt’s, faster. His breath stirs a lock of hair that has fallen into his face. Geralt watches it, rapt, as the hands press down harder. 

They crush him down. They pull him up. They tug and tease and something deep within him shouts _now._ Geralt rises. 

He makes a choice.

…

Letho does nothing to hide his tracks. He borrows a horse from the stable and rides straight west for an hour after his run in with Geralt. Several townspeople see him as they go about their morning tasks, and his horse leaves an obvious trail of prints in the freshly fallen snow. A blind man could track him. Geralt will have no difficulties.

He settles down in a clearing and sets about making a fire. Hours pass, but Letho doesn’t mind. Decades of monster hunting teach a man how to wait. 

In spite of the fire, cold has tinged his fingers blue by the time hoof beats reach his ears. They approach at a canter then slow to a plodding walk as the rider makes his way through the trees. With no other sounds to disturb his focus, Letho can hear the rider’s breathing. The rustle of his armor. His slow, slow heartbeat. 

Geralt swings off of Roach and moves to the fire, his boots crunching in the snow. He could be quiet, if he wanted. A silent, unseen hunter. He doesn’t bother. This prey left a trail. This prey expects a fight. 

“I won’t make it easy for you,” Letho says. 

He feels Geralt’s eyes on his back, but the other witcher gives no response. Instead, he circles the fire and crouches down across the flames. Coiled, like a spring. Like a predator ready to lunge. 

Letho touches the sword at his hip. He was caught unawares in the manor that morning, unarmed and drunk on contentment. The same mistake will not be made again. 

“Why are you here?” Geralt asks. The words are more drum than voice, thick with the deep thrum of destiny. 

Wild animals posture in the face of danger, hoping that their exaggerated size will scare away any beast wishing to attack. Letho’s first instinct is much the same. He wants to draw his sword, to crack a dirty joke about the women of Lettenhove, or better yet, the pretty bard that lords over them all. Wants to make himself bigger and scarier than he already is, wants to posture. Because the core of him, the animal within him, knows that this is not a fight he will win. 

He fights those instincts down. Letho knows the weight in Geralt’s voice, knows what moments like this can do to the course of nations. The White Wolf is a being of destiny, and destiny has made her choice. It is time Letho made his. 

“To rest,” he answers. 

The air is as thick as the canopy of snow above them. Geralt’s eyes consume him in the flicker of the fire.

“These people are innocent.” The lips that move are Geralt’s, but the voice belongs to fate. 

“I know. I mean them no harm.”

Geralt’s head tilts, scrutinizing. “Why?”

“They were kind to me,” Letho says, “Without reason to be. They offered a place to ride out the winter, and I accepted.”

This is met with a solemn nod. All witchers understand the need for shelter, especially in the winter months. 

“And Jaskier?” Geralt asks. Letho hears the unspoken question clear as if it had been shouted across the scant space between them. _Do you mean him harm?_

Letho pauses. His breath sparks in his lungs, spreading from his chest to crawl across his skin until his entire self trembles with a bright, insistent warning. His simple _no_ dies on his lips. Memory drops over his vision like a tapestry. A viscount. A pair of trousers a few inches too short. A long, red strip of skin, raised and angry on the body of a man who never seems to stop smiling. 

“He has a scar on his left ankle,” Letho says. “A knife wound that goes up the calf.” He waits for a nod of recognition, then asks, “Who put it there?”

“A Nilfgaardian,” Geralt says evenly. 

“Where is he now?”

“Dead.”

Letho pulls a dagger from his belt and spins it idly, letting the firelight catch on its edges. “And his family?” A small crease appears between Geralt’s brows- the only question he is willing to ask. “Do any of his children still breathe? Do his siblings? His friends?”

Geralt shakes his head, but not in answer. “I wasn’t that thorough.”

The dagger falls from Letho’s hands and lands, point down, in a piece of wood by his feet. “I would have been.” 

Neither man moves. Even the horses are silent. The world itself is still. 

“I would have tracked down the family,” he says. “Parents first, if they were still alive. Then the siblings. I’d kill the kids quickly, but make the wife watch. She would get the same scar up the calf, deep enough to hit bone. Deep enough to bleed but not enough to kill her. I would let the animals take care of that.”

Tension drops out of Geralt in waves. He drops his crouch and sits cross-legged on the snowy ground, hardly seeming to notice the cold. When he next speaks it is with his own voice. 

“That was quick." He offers Letho a wry grin, the first in many years. "Took him at least a few weeks to make Lambert want to kill for him, and you know how Lambert feels about killing.” Humor replaces the fire in Geralt’s eyes. “What did he say to you?”

Letho is tempted for a moment to tell some ridiculous tale, just to get under Geralt’s skin. But only for a moment. No story he spins would work nearly as well as the truth. 

“He held my knife to his throat and dared me to kill him.”

A muscle ticks in Geralt’s jaw. Emotion roils off him, a cacophony of smells that collide and conflict, declaring _confused, angry, concerned, fond, baffled, loving_ before settling down and deciding on _frustrated._

“Tough fucker,” Letho says.

That same muscle ticks again. “I’m going to kill him myself,” Geralt growls. 

“No you won’t.”

An acid look. “Of course not.” Geralt lets out the sigh of a man who has had this conversation with himself a hundred times over. “But I won’t fuck him for a week.” 

A smirk spreads across Letho’s face. “You won’t do that either.”

…

There is a click of metal on metal. A creak. Soft footfalls on hard wood, and breaths that come so quiet even a witcher would strain to hear them. A figure walks into the room.

Destiny does not walk with him. 

Geralt takes off his snow soaked clothes, sets his shoes by the fire, and slides into bed beside Jaskier, who is still sound asleep. The curtains are drawn against the evening sun. It casts a mix of maroon and gold over the manor at Lettenhove, painting its eaves with blood and finery. Neither lover notices. 

Fate’s cold hands have long since slipped from Geralt’s shoulders. He is weightless now, like the bird he wears around his neck. Worriless as the man who sleeps beside him. 

Destiny is not in Lettenhove this night. She has other lives to tangle, other kingdoms to topple. She has choices to offer. Mistakes to witness. She holds out rope with an uncaring arm and lets men have their will. 

There is nothing more for her in Lettenhove. Choices will be made in the coming months, yes, but none that need her soft touch. Her flair for the dramatic. She held out the rope this night, and not one man touched it. It hangs at her side now, untied, waiting for the next hero or king who thinks he can decide the fate of the world better than the last. 

He never can. 

Destiny will come for Lettenhove. But now, with this night, with this choice, she waits. Men of war gathered in this manor. 

And together they chose peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert and Eskel next chapter, I promise! Thank you guys so so much for reading, and as always, please feel free to rant at me in the comments.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is starting up, so I finally feel like a person again! It's nice to be able to wake up early and actually have something to do. But of course, what do I do when my professors load on the work? You guessed it! I write Witcher fanfiction. Please enjoy my product of procrastination.

Lambert and Eskel give more warning than Geralt did. Jaskier has time to dress and eat before he greets them at the door. Winter winds cut through his silks and he curses into the empty morning, his displeased smile turning genuine at the sounds of hoof beats down the road. The two witchers ride right up to the door and drop down from their horses. Jaskier is immediately caught up in a vicious hug, all old riding leathers and hunt-hardened muscles. 

“Melitele’s tits,” he says, grinning. “You two reek.”

Lambert answers him with a rumble. “Better than whatever smell you’ve got on. What is that, flowers?”

“Honeysuckle,” Jaskier defends. “It’s in season.”

As the men catch up, a stable girl emerges from the shadows to take their horses and offers Eskel a nod of recognition. He nods back. Jaskier sees the exchange and lets out a dramatic groan. 

“Not you too, Eskel. Has every bloody person on the continent been to Lettenhove in the last few months?”

“Every one except you,” Eskel says. He throws an arm around Jaskier’s waist and leads them inside. “How’s Leo these days?”

…

Letho waits for the wolves in the sitting room. Geralt is across from him, not tense but not relaxed, waiting for his brothers and his bard. They sweep through the door with a wave of laughter and warm words. Lambert with his sharp glares. Eskel in the fully glory of his pragmatism. And Julian, stood between them with his voice already raised, telling stories of the weeks they’ve been apart.

He isn’t sure what Geralt told the others about Letho’s presence, but whatever it was it seems to have worked. Eskel gives him a long hard look and a sharp nod before focusing on Geralt. Lambert dares to step closer. He stands a few feet from Letho with one hand on a dagger and tilts his head in challenge. 

“You make a move and I gut you,” he says. 

“Oi!” Julian pulls himself away from conversation with Eskel and lays a hand on Lambert’s shoulder. Letho expects a shrug and a harsh word from Lambert, famous for his anger. Instead, his posture softens and his hand falls from his dagger. 

He turns to Julian, looking almost sheepish. “Just lookin’ out for you.”

“I know,” Julian answers. “But this is going to be a violence free winter.” He shifts so his voice will carry to the entire room. “You two idiots hear that too? _Violence free winter.”_

Eskel jeers and Geralt flips him off, but all three men are smiling. Letho wonders if it’s even possible. Four witchers under one roof for a few months? There’s bound to be some violence. 

“Fine,” Lambert grits out. “But if he hurts someone, I’m cutting his throat out.”

Julian thumps him on the back and laughs. “We won’t have any problems, then. He had his chance to kill me and he didn’t take it.”

“Fucking what?” Lambert growls, hand flying back to his dagger. 

Letho decides it’s time to speak up for himself. “Your bard is the crazy one, not me. I’m just here for Leo’s chicken stew.”

Across the room, he can see Eskel perk up. “Leo made chicken stew?”

A polite cough comes from the threshold. Leo stands there, hands neatly folded in front of him, smiling softly. “Indeed I did.” He sketches a bow to Eskel and Lambert. “Welcome home boys. You look cold. There’s ale in the kitchen, and food. Help yourselves.”

They go. Geralt stays behind with Julian, caught up in a conversation too low for Letho to hear. He wanders off to leave them with each other. The afternoon passes like a slow moving stream. Letho does his best to reside where the others do not, only emerging from the recesses of the manor when Leo calls them for dinner. 

Choosing a place to sit causes a frustrating spike in anxiety for Letho. In any other circumstance, he would simply refuse to break bread with the wolves. But he knows that taking his plate elsewhere will offend Julian, and he can't stand the look of reproach that Leo would undoubtedly send his way. 

The dining room table is large enough to seat twenty. Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt are all crammed together on one side, their knees bumping underneath a table clearly built to accommodate smaller men. Julian is in the kitchen with Leo speaking animatedly about some noble woman or another. 

Letho sits directly across from the other three. It’s not a challenge, per se. It’s more a way of declaring that he was there first, he was welcomed by Julian, and he will not be cowed. Lambert’s expression still screams murder, but Geralt gives him a slight nod, and Letho knows the other two won’t cross the White Wolf. Not with Julian around. 

The bard himself joins them a few minutes later. He sweeps into the room with three plates balanced precariously on each arm and goes about setting them down in front of people. Geralt is first, with a wink from Julian, then the others. One plate is dropped at the head of the table. At first, Letho assumes it’s for Julian. He is the viscount after all. But he moves away from the head of the table and collapses in the seat next to Letho, wiping his forehead melodramatically as he sets down his own plate. 

“I’m not cut out to be a serving boy,” he jokes. “The temptation to drop a bowl of stew on some smelly patron would be too great.”

“And serving boys don’t wear silk,” Eskel says. 

“A pity, really,” Julian says. “They are oh so comfortable.”

Julian knocks his elbow into Letho’s like they’re sharing an inside joke. Letho takes it as an invitation to speak and asks, “Why aren’t you at the head of the table?”

“Too formal.” Julian waves a hand at the gathered group and then at himself, trying to indicate the ties between them. “I’m a viscount by technicality, not lifestyle. It would feel wrong not to sit with all of you.”

“Who is at the head, then?” 

“Leo,” Julian says. 

Lambert snorts and Eskel hides a smile behind his sip of ale. 

“Isn’t he your housekeeper?” Geralt asks. 

“Sort of. But he’s also my…” Julian trails off. He drums his fingers on the table and Letho can practically see the gears turning in his head as he searches for a suitable metaphor. A huff of frustration escapes him and he raps his knuckles against the wood. “It’s like this, Geralt. He’s a father to me the way Vesemir was to you. Less of an taskmaster than Vesemir, but you get the point. Traditionally, my real father would sit at the head of the table because his status would be highest. Now it should be me because I’m the viscount, but I’ve already explained why I don’t do that, and it would feel equally awkward for Leo to sit next to me. So I put him at the head and we both agree to ignore propriety for the night.”

Julian ends his rant with an exasperated gesture towards the front of the table as if to say _see?_ Just to test the waters, Letho sets a heavy hand on his shoulder. Solemnly, he says, “That’s way too many fucking rules.”

A startled laugh pushes its way past Eskel’s lips. He turns it into a cough and looks deeply into his mug, a furrow between his brows as if he can’t believe the sound he just made. But Letho heard it. 

The rest of dinner is wrapped in tension that gradually eases as the night goes on. Like the rigging of a ship going slack as the wind falls out of the sails, Letho lets himself get swept away by the cadence of Julian’s voice and the sacred experience of a good meal. The others relax as well, dropping their guards as Julian’s stories grow less believable and Leo’s jokes settle lightly in the air. A hint of a smile teases the corners of Geralt’s face, though he’s too on edge to let it go further than that. 

A good deal of Letho’s comfort comes from the constant stream of friendly touches from the bard at his side. Julian gesticulates wildly when he talks. His hands often come to rest on Letho’s shoulders or tap on his back. At one point Julian steals a piece of bread off his plate, and Letho can’t bring himself to be upset. 

He keeps waiting for one of the wolves to be bothered by it. Surely if Julian were flirting, Geralt would speak up. And even if he isn’t flirting, because Letho doesn’t think he is, it seems like Lambert or Eskel would be perturbed by the sheer familiarity with which he treats Letho. But none of them say a word. Their eyes don’t even linger on where Julian has touched him, though Letho himself can feel every spot like a white-hot poker burning through his shirt. After an entire evening of agonizing over it, Letho decides that maybe Julian is just _like that._ Affectionate. 

And it’s a good thing he is. Because Letho never wants him to stop. He wants to sit at that dinner table and soak up Julian’s casual touches for the rest of his life. 

He can’t, of course. The meal comes to an end and Leo clears the plates away as they all stand up. Without the others there, this is the time of night that Letho would make his way outside and go for a run. He isn’t sure where he’s meant to be with the wolves around. 

Julian leads the group into a room with a roaring fire and several large couches. They’re stained and creased, unlike the perfectly decorated furniture in the front rooms of the house. Lambert and Eskel drop onto one with matching sighs. Geralt goes to stoke the fire, and Julian…he lies down and drops his head into Lambert’s lap, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

Lambert drops his hand to Julian’s head and tugs on a strand of hair. “Lazy,” he says. “We came all this way for the music, and you won’t even play us something?”

Julian groans. “Make Eskel play.”

“None of us want that,” Eskel says. “I’m several months out of practice.”

Letho needs a moment to process the new information. Eskel plays an instrument? _Eskel?_ By the time he manages to tune back into the conversation, Julian is grinning his assent. 

“Fine,” he says, “if you insist. But I’m not getting up.”

“Lazy,” Geralt says. Still, he dusts his hands off and walks out of the room. A minute later he returns with Julian’s lute held gently in one hand. Julian takes it without moving his head from Lambert’s lap and sets about tuning it. When he seems satisfied with the sound, he hums and cranes his neck up at Lambert. 

“Any requests?”

“Riverside Romp,” Lambert says. 

Julian lets out a startled peal of laughter. “Who’s been teaching you dirty songs?”

“Heard it in a tavern in Skellige a few weeks back. Sounded like the kind of thing you would know how to play.”

“Of course I know how to play it.” Julian’s face manages to convey indignation and pride all at once. “I _am_ the best bard on the Continent.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt says. “Have you ever heard of a man named Valdo Marx?”

Julian gasps. “Geralt! For shame. You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Eskel kicks Julian gently, a laugh half formed on his lips. “Play.”

Julian sits up just enough to shoot Geralt a glare as his fingers move on the strings. It’s a fast song. He plays single notes at first, but soon enough starts to pluck at the strings with one hand while the other forms ever-changing chords. The effect is music that sounds like far more than one instrument is playing it. 

Like any good tavern song, the lyrics are filthy. Julian’s voice runs over the words with just the right lilt, just the right accents. He winks at Geralt halfway through a particularly graphic verse. 

Letho marvels at how natural it all is. He can’t imagine it’s easy to play a lute and sing lying down, but Julian seems to have the skill mastered. It speaks to hours of practice. The way Lambert taps his foot and Eskel drums his fingers against Julian’s leg tells Letho that they have done this before. They’ve had a hundred nights lying around the fire, listening to Julian sing, feeling safe enough to leave their weapons in another room and waste the hours away. 

“Dawn to Dusk” is next, followed by “Fires in Redania,” and “Along the Banks.” Letho was never one to seek out music, but he has to admit that Julian is good. Really good. His voice fills the corners of the room with light, turning the air warm and thick as honey. 

“Along the Banks” fades into silence and Julian lifts an eyebrow. 

“Requests?”

Lambert catches Letho’s eye. There is steel in his gaze. “The Sword that Split the Continent,” he says. 

The peace Letho was basking in flies into the fire and dies screaming. He knows that song. It was written about him, about his crimes. The artist was a young woman whose family he had killed many years ago. The song wove stories of murder and fire, of his sword and the chaos that followed in his bloody path. It was to blame for the darkest parts of his reputation. 

And every word of it was true. 

“No,” Julian says. His eyes are sad as he sits up and places his lute on a nearby table. No part of his body touches Lambert anymore. “I think it’s time we all turned in.”

“Jaskier,” Lambert starts, but Julian cuts him off. 

“Second floor, third room on the left. I’ll be there in a minute. I need to change.” He picks up his lute and nods to Letho. “Good night.” Then he’s gone.

Eskel turns hard eyes on his brother. “Really?”

Lambert snarls. “Are we all going to pretend we want him here? He tried to _kill_ Geralt not too long ago, or don’t you fucking remember that? I’ll respect the no violence rule if I have to, but there’s no fucking point in lying to each other. I want him gone.”

“I don’t,” Geralt says. Lambert turns on him, face twisted with betrayal. 

“You can’t mean that.”

“I do. I want him here, and so does Jaskier.”

Lambert is on his feet, feeling for a weapon he isn’t carrying. He settles for a vicious gesture in Geralt’s direction. “You’ve lost your fucking mind. He’s the Kingslayer. He’s a murderer.”

“We all are,” Eskel mutters. 

Geralt drops a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You may not like it, but this is not your decision to make. He stays.”

Lambert turns to Letho. “I’d throw you out in pieces if I could.”

“I know,” Letho says with a leer. “But you can’t.”

Lambert storms out and leaves the three of them alone. 

“I don’t like your brother very much,” Letho says. 

Eskel gets up from his position on the couch and stretches. “The feeling is mutual,” he deadpans. “Come on, Geralt. You know Jaskier won’t have grabbed enough blankets. We should raid the upstairs closets before we join him.”

Geralt nods. He and Eskel go upstairs together, their boots echoing thickly on the staircase as they ascend. Letho hears them opening doors and bickering for a while. Then Julian’s voice says, “Fucking finally. It’s cold in here,” and one heavy door slams silence into the house. 

In this silence, Letho’s thought turn inwards. It amazes him how Geralt came to his defense, though he knows it was more for Julian’s sake than his own. Lambert’s reaction was what he expected from all of them. The unexpected neutrality from Eskel and grudging acceptance from Geralt are more than he could have asked for. Besides, what does Lambert matter in the face of Julian’s warmth? 

He is so caught up in analyzing the events of the day that the fire burns down to embers. When it does, Letho is pulled from his thoughts by the cold. Only then does he piece together what happened when Julian left. 

_Second floor, third room on the left._

_You know Jaskier won’t have grabbed enough blankets._

_Fucking finally._

They’re sleeping in the same room. 

He can’t remember the last time he slept in the same room as another person. Certainly not recently, and definitely not unarmed. They must be unarmed, because Julian would never allow weapons in the bedroom. Letho can’t imagine it. Do they share a bed? Eskel’s comment about the blankets would suggest that. Do they hold each other? Could Julian’s natural affection possibly extend that far?

Letho slams down those thoughts before they can consume him. There is no use dwelling on what the wolves are doing. There is no use remembering the burn of Julian’s hand on his skin at dinner. He is a man of action and efficiency. These thoughts have no place in his mind. 

He stands. He goes upstairs. He lights his fire, sharpens his swords, and lies down on his back in bed, eyes turned to the ceiling. He sleeps. Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have y'all read "The Name of the Wind?" When it comes to music and general stupidity, Kvothe has some serious Jaskier vibes. Anyway, as always, please feel free to rant/ask questions/commiserate with me in the comments ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Everything has been crazy lately because I just moved to Canada, and getting all my ID, cell service, and wifi was a mess. But I'm in a really good place now, in an apartment I love, so I can finally get back to writing. That said, this should be getting updated regularly until it's finished. 
> 
> Also, I want to give a huge shoutout to RoS13. They wrote two completely hilarious poems for me in the comments that were a huge source of motivation for jumping back into this project. If anyone wants to read those poems, they're just in the comments, so you can go look at them if you choose. Thank you RoS!

Leo sets their morning drinks down on the breakfast table. The witchers’ cups are ceramic, but Jaskier’s is a sparkling chalice that would look more at home in a proper castle than his simple manor. Geralt eyes the thing warily, but Jaskier laughs aloud when he sees it. 

“Where on earth did you find this thing, Leo?” 

“It was in the magic drawer, sire,” Leo says. “I thought you would find it amusing.”

Nothing, Geralt thinks, about that sentence sounds safe. Jaskier looks entirely too excited. 

“Magic drawer?”

Leo makes an expression that, in a less dignified person, would be accompanied by a palm to the forehead. “My apologies,” he says. “With all the commotion lately, I completely forgot to mention it. The witchers who pass through here are usually kind enough to leave some sort of small gift. Many of them are magical, so I collected them all in a drawer upstairs to save for you, and to prevent possible accidents.”

“Jaskier-“ Geralt warns. But it is already too late. Jaskier’s eyes are bright with mischief. 

He stands straight up from the table, practically vibrating out of his skin. “Leo. Leo, Leo, Leo. My dear, dear friend. Where is it?”

“The top drawer in the unused bedroom, sire.” 

Jaskier is off before he gets the last word out. Geralt swears and follows after him, the others close behind. They run upstairs and into a spacious room with a large armoire at the end. Jaskier skids to a halt in front of it and bounces forward on his toes before grabbing the handle of the top drawer and wrenching it open. 

The magical energy that ripples out hits Geralt like a blow to the face. He can hear his brothers react behind him from the sheer force of it. A single magical charm or object is barely detectable, but this many in one place has enough power to make the air taste different. Sharper. Yennefer gives off much the same aura. 

Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice the magic, or the witchers’ reactions. He already has something in his hand. It’s a rich green pendant, made of some kind of shimmering rock. While clearly magical, Geralt can’t identify its purpose just by sight. Objects like this take careful observation and testing to determine their use, and often more work beyond that to use them properly. 

Jaskier drops it over his head. Eskel makes a distressed noise and Geralt darts forward to grab the thing before it can hit Jaskier’s chest. He has no clue if that will help prevent danger, but it feels better to do something than stand idly back. 

“Would you be fucking careful?” he snarls. “You don’t know what it does.”

“Obviously.” Jaskier tilts his head and gives Geralt a smile like parents do to humor a small child. “How will I know what it does if I don’t put it on? Now let go.” He pries Geralt’s fingers away from the pendant. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

They wait with bated breath. And wait. And wait. 

“Well?” Lambert says. 

Jaskier shrugs. “I don’t feel any different.”

“I studied magical objects for quite a while a decade or so ago,” Eskel says. “Come here, let me have a look.”

Jaskier lifts his foot to take a step and, in a blur of motion, crashes into the opposite wall. It’s too fast for even Geralt to see. One moment he’s standing before the armoire, and the next he’s sitting on the floor with a look of pure bewilderment splashed across his face. 

“I know what it does,” he chokes out. 

Letho offers him a hand up. Jaskier takes it, stands, steps, and crashes into another wall across the room. This time, his hands meet the wall and hold him upright before he can fall over. 

“Speed charm,” Eskel admires. “Those are rare.”

Jaskier lifts the pendant over his head and sets it down carefully. He walks, at a manageable pace now, back over to the chest. The mishap doesn't seem to have deterred him. If anything, the mischievous light in his eyes has only grown stronger. 

“So, Geralt. You think I should be careful.”

Geralt pushes down a surge of protective instincts and grinds out, “Obviously.”

“Uh huh,” Jaskier says, nodding. “What do you think Lambert?” He turns to Geralt’s brother with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Do you agree with your brother over here?”

“’Course not.” 

“Interesting,” Jaskier says. “Letho, any thoughts?”

The Kingslayer shrugs, ropy arms crossed over his chest. “Might die,” he says. “Could be fun.”

Jaskier claps once. “Right then. Geralt, step aside please. The room has spoken.”

“Might _die_?” Geralt echoes, acid glare pointed straight at Letho. All he gets in return is a smirk. 

“Could be _fun_ ,” Jaskier says. “I like fun.”

The armoire is, indeed, fun. Most of the pendants in it are more common. Minor healing spells make up the majority of them, along with one that seems to be a long-lasting perfume, a couple of potions that Eskel thinks are for night vision, and a plethora of enchanted household items that don’t break down or burn. But some. Oh, some are special. 

Lambert digs into the pile along with Jaskier, and he pulls out an opal the size of his thumbnail. Jaskier, who was leaned casually against his lap to dig through a pile of items, falls right through him. At the same time, his clothes drop off his body, cloth dampening the clatter of his weapons against the wood floor. He freezes, shocked, and Jaskier bursts out into laughter. 

“Gross,” Letho drawls. Lambert flips him off. 

Eskel keeps his head, leaning forward to look at the stone. After a few moments, he says, “I think it’s some sort of transience spell. Makes your body incorporeal.” 

Lambert drops the opal. This time, Jaskier’s hand on his knee lands on skin instead of air. “Fucking sweet,” he says. 

“Could you use that for hunting?” Jaskier asks Geralt. 

He shakes his head. “Not unless I want to end up naked in the middle of a fight.”

“Which is bad…why?”

“Because I could die.”

“Yes,” Jaskier says with a wink. “But you’d look hot doing it.”

Letho fails to hide his laugh behind a cough. Jaskier’s chest puffs up when he sees it, a sparkle in his eyes like he’s won something. The echoes of it last all day.

…

The excitement of Jaskier’s new treasure trove takes a week to wear off. Geralt declares all the spells non-lethal, and the household staff is offered their pick of the more common charms. Leo takes a few healing spells. One of the serving girls takes the perfume. Geralt keeps the speed charm out of Jaskier’s hands, and Jaskier wraps the opal up in a cloth and tucks it into the bottom of his travel pack, already planning uses for it. Quick change between sets, for one. Or a convenient way of getting Geralt naked.

Around the time that things start to settle down, the villagers report monster activity a few miles south. The witchers gather in the kitchen to argue over who should take care of it. 

“Jaskier is mine, and this is his house,” Geralt says. “I should go.”

“He’d kill us if you got hurt,” Eskel argues. 

Lambert agrees with him. “Why don’t we make the Kingslayer go?”

“I want to handle it,” Geralt says. Lambert leans forward, ready to argue, when a polite cough comes from the doorway. Jaskier stands there, one hand on his hip, lavish gold silks draped across him in a style that he calls ‘casual’ and Geralt calls ‘nonsense’. 

“Idiots,” he says fondly. “There’s an obvious solution here.” He steps fully into the room, setting one hand on Geralt’s shoulder and one on Eskel’s. “If one of you get hurt, I’ll freak out on the other two. You know that. So how about you go together, completely overwhelm the little beastie, and all come home safe? Hmmm?”

The witchers take a minute to mull it over. They haven’t fought together, truly killed and risked their lives by each others' sides, since the Nilfgaard disaster a few years ago. But they all like the idea. 

Eskel is the first to agree. Geralt and Lambert follow shortly after. They pack their weapons, extra clothes to beat off the cold, and a few of the healing potions from Jaskier’s stash, then head off. Letho stays behind. The three wolves know how to work as a pack, how to take down prey. A viper will only get in the way. 

When the sound of their horses’ hoof beats fade into the snow, Jaskier turns away from the manor door. “You know what I want?” he asks Letho. “Tea. A good, hot cup of tea.” He rubs his hands together in anticipation and leads them off down the hall. 

They light a fire in one of the sitting rooms and curl up on the couch. Or rather, Jaskier curls. Letho sort of sits in the corner and broods. 

“Not a tea man?” Jaskier asks. 

“Ale.” 

Jaskier huffs. “Oh, I’m a witcher. I’m a big man and I drink _ale_.” He pitches his voice low on the last word and cackles at the scandalized expression it earns him. 

“I don’t fucking sound like that.” 

“Touchy,” Jaskier teases. He takes a long sip of his drink and sighs. “I’ve been meaning to ask, where did you get that scar on your bicep?”

Letho looks down at his arm. “Which one?” 

Jaskier hides a smile in another sip of tea. He doesn’t know, really, since there are so many, but each scar carries a story. And all he needs is for Letho to talk to him. “Any of them.”

…

Julian, Letho discovers, is frighteningly good at misdirection. He asks about Letho’s scars to open the conversation, and Letho can’t help but go along with it. Hours later, they’ve moved through innumerable topics, worked their way through several plates of food from the kitchens, and Julian has migrated almost entirely onto Letho’s lap.

He can’t pin down how it happened. Julian got up a few times to stoke the fire or fill his cup, and every time he sat down it was a little closer to Letho. And then their legs were pressed together, and Julian’s arm ended up slung over Letho’s shoulders, and Letho ended up leaning back to accommodate his weight better. They end up touching from sternum to pelvis, Julian’s back to Letho’s chest. His head falls back on Letho’s shoulder when he laughs. 

“She didn’t even believe me,” Julian pouts, in the middle of a story hours later. “I am a completely, perfectly honest man, really I-“ He cuts off, a hand flying to his chest, muscles tense.

“Julian?”

Julian waves him off, eyes shut. After a few long moments, he drops his hand. “That was Geralt. They killed whatever it was, but they don’t think it’s safe to travel in the snowstorm. They’re going to find rooms in the nearest town for now and make their way back here as soon as the weather lets up.”

Letho looks over his shoulder at the window. The world outside is whited out in a fury of snowflakes. He wouldn’t travel in it, either. “Good idea.” 

Julian snorts. “They do have those occasionally.”

“ _Occasionally_ ,” Letho emphasizes. A laugh answers him, and a sudden surge of bravery lets him curl a little closer to Julian, placing a gentle hand on his waist and shifting so their legs tangle up. He’s tentative, careful to make sure Julian can pull away if he wants. 

“I’d be worried if I hadn’t been in a million worse storms myself,” Julian says. He doesn’t pull away. 

Letho hums in answer. The room is spinning a little around him, like his field of vision has been knocked off by a few degrees. There’s a tug in his chest that screams for more. More warmth, more weight. He wants to pull Julian fully on top of him and let his body weigh Letho down, let it crush him to the dirt and keep him there. 

He doesn’t say a word, afraid that bringing attention to the way they’re touching will make Julian want to leave. Instead, he tells stories from past hunts. He listens to Julian’s tales. The rambunctious ones become quieter as the night goes on. Softer. All of Julian seems softer by firelight than by day. His hair is smooth where it falls into his face, and Letho is consumed by the need to know how it feels. A girl at a brothel once told him it felt nice when he touched her hair. That was after everything, after he paid, in one of the rare moments when he wasn’t thrown out of the room the second he finished. It’s not the same thing with Julian, of course, but Letho is curious. He wonders if Julian likes his hair played with, too.

Before he can come work up the courage to find out, Julian heaves himself up with a yawn. He stretches his arms, ridiculous silks bunching up and falling back into place. “I’m exhausted,” he says. “It was a long, hard day doing nothing. I think I'll turn in." 

Letho mourns the loss of his heat, but there is nothing he can do to make him stay. “Good night,” he says, hoping the disappointment isn't as clear to Julian as it is to him.

Julian clambers up from where they were lying and pads across the room. At the threshold, he stops. He turns around, cautiously, body open and relaxed. He catches Letho’s eye. “You coming?”

Not one adequate word is present in Letho’s mind, but Julian can see the question in his dumbfounded eyes. 

“What, you thought I was going to bed alone?” A wry smile teases at the corners of his lips. “I’m afraid I’m much to accustomed to comfort to give it up now. Spoiled, I know, but I can’t really sleep these days unless someone else is there.”

It’s a lie. Letho knows it’s a lie because Julian has told him plenty of stories about times when he was apart from the other witchers and slept just fine. But it’s such a beautiful lie. And when Julian says, “Help a bard out?” with that same softness in the corners of his eyes, there isn’t a wisp of Letho’s soul that could turn him down. 

He follows Julian upstairs to the master bedroom. It’s not the same one the wolves have been sleeping in, which Letho appreciates. He couldn’t sleep with the smell of them all over the place. Julian drops the jacket he was wearing over the back of a chair and pulls off his shirt, leaving him in nothing but a pair of loose fitting pants. He slides beneath the covers.

Letho follows suit, uncertain, the sheets silken against his bare skin. He expects caution, like before. Maybe slow movement towards more touching. But Julian’s patience has worn thin. He reaches out between them to pull Letho close, rolling over to slot his back to Letho’s chest, draping Letho’s arm across his body. 

“Better,” Julian says. 

Breath is caught in Letho’s throat. There isn’t a feeling in the world like warm skin on skin. Not to break or bruise. Not to fuck and leave. Just contact for contact’s sake, touch because they both want touch. His skin is flayed open from the intensity of it. Relaxation rolls through him like a healer's balm. 

“No,” Julian says, “this isn’t quite right.” 

_Don’t go,_ Letho begs. Except he doesn’t say a word.

“How can we make this better?” Julian muses. 

Letho shuts his eyes until the world rights itself again. “It’s fine.”

Julian shakes his head. “Fine isn’t the goal. Something’s missing here.” He eyes Letho in the dark, quick eyes scrutinizing Letho’s face. “Tell me,” he whispers. “What do you want?”

Words aren’t the tool for this. They can’t express the ache in Letho’s bones, how it carves him out and leaves him wanting for closeness, hard without being painful. He craves something that will hold him together by force. Something stronger and longer lasting than an arm around a waist or the gentle brush of legs on legs. But actions are the language of a witcher, not words. 

He moves before he can overthink it, rolling them both and lifting Julian up with one arm onto Letho’s chest. They’re pressed completely together now, Julian covering Letho’s entire body with his own weight. He’s heavier than he looks, especially with the covers piled on top of him. Julian’s sharp edges dig into Letho with just the right kind of hurt, enough to remind him that this is a person he’s lying next to. Not some object. Not some dream. 

Julian lets out a gratified groan, the kind Letho usually makes when he sits down after a rough fight. He shifts until the position is perfect and goes lax in Letho’s hold. “’S lovely,” he slurs out. 

Lovely. Not a word many people use to describe Letho. Certainly not to describe touching him. It’s a soft word, and it fits well in Julian’s mouth. It hangs in the air between them as Julian falls asleep. It hangs there still when Letho closes his eyes, not sleeping but not fully awake. He won’t let unconsciousness take him when there is so much left to feel. So many things he must commit to memory before the cold morning sun sweeps them away. 

He does not sleep for fear there will never be another night like this.

v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and being patient with me. I know updates on this have been super slow, but I still get a lot of love from you guys, and I really appreciate it. As always, please feel free to leave a comment/question/rant below, and thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little chapter as I get ready to wrap things up. The next chapter of this fic will be the last, and it will be out before the end of the month! 
> 
> Also: If I Must Starve hit 5000 kudos, and I just have to say a massive, crazy huge THANK YOU to all of you for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos on my work. My writing has gotten an insane amount of attention and kindness from the community. It means so, so much to me. You folks are amazing, and I appreciate you every day!

Can you see the threads of destiny? Gwyn can. She overhears Lord Julian say “You coming?” and she knows, deep in the parts of her that may be a little magical, that the golden strands she has seen forming around the mansion will tighten now. Wrapping and binding and solidifying, the whole estate in Destiny’s distant embrace. 

Those same strands stream from Julian like a cape. They dance in his lover’s golden eyes. She sees them now through the windows of the manor, descending with the snow. She watches as Lettenhove is enshrined in the halls of fate. 

Down in the kitchen, she hands a coin to another serving girl. 

“That quick?” says the girl. 

“I just saw them go upstairs,” Gwyn answers. She ruffles her skirts and leans against the counter, arms crossed loose over her chest. “You know what this means.”

Her friend offers her a soft smile. “There will be more.” 

Gwyn nods. “There will be more.”

…

For all his heart, thinks Leo, Julian doesn’t pay much attention to what’s really happening in Lettenhove. He cares when people are in danger, but the extra linens in the closets? The blacksmiths with much larger forges than the previous year? The steel in the eyes of his household staff? He does not notice these things.

Leo cannot see the threads as Gywn does, but he feels their changes all the same. There is something different about the roads of Lettenhove these days. Colors are brighter. Shadows darker. Sometimes he holds up his hand to the candlelight just to see it, just to make sure it remains unchanged. 

Julian has changed. He is less human than before. His veneer of flagrant silliness is wearing off, giving way to cutting humor and a magnetic presence that Leo hardly notices until suddenly, abruptly, it is there. Looking away from Julian is like seeing the world after focusing on a single spot for hours, jarring in its intensity. 

Knowledge comes with age. Leo knows a great many things about people, and a great many tales about magic. Most of the tales came from Julian, which is how he knows that they contain a kernel of truth. He knows that there are people who can throw flame from their palms or rend a man’s head from his shoulders with a flick of their fingers. 

But he also believes in quieter magic. The kind that sits in wait until it is needed and looks like luck to the uncaring eye. He believes in this magic because he has seen it with his own eyes.

A man of Leo’s age is prone to injury. Sharp as he may be, one wrong fall could break or pull something far more easily than when he was a young man. Yet Leo has not had an injury in months. Not a papercut, not a bruise. He hasn’t fallen down the stairs, or tripped on a pebble in the road, or even bumped his elbow unpleasantly against a countertop. None of the people in his employ have either. Not a single member of the manor staff has caught cold for nearly a year. 

This is quiet magic. This is the warm darkness in Julian’s eyes. This is how Leo knows, with the wisdom of his age, that there will be more witchers at Lettenhove, for many more years to come.

…

Jaskier wakes in Letho’s arms. It’s funny how different the witchers feel. They’re all large men, muscular and scarred, but he can always tell who is pressed close when he wakes.

Perhaps it’s the difference in hold. Geralt fits with him like a glove, curves and angles aligned like two reflections, something the poetic part of Jaskier is still unable to capture in song. Lambert clings. Eskel is respectful, close but not overbearing, never taking too much. More than anything, Letho is dead weight. He is not so much holding Jaskier as existing next to him, all of Letho dead to the world, so lost in sleep that even his limbs lose their animation. 

It’s not unpleasant. They have somehow managed not to move at all during the night, so Jaskier is still stretched out on top of Letho’s chest. Heavy arms rest across his back, just this side of too warm. He takes a deep breath. Not unpleasant at all. 

They don’t move until well past noon. Jaskier suspects that Letho has been awake far longer than he lets on, but he neither asks nor cares. Both of them deserve the extra sleep. When they do get up, it’s in the loosest sense of the term. Someone brings food to the door and Jaskier grabs it without a word. He sits in the corner and strums lightly on his lute, plucking out gentle cords and melodies to the beat of Letho’s breaths. It is the longest he has been silent out of choice, rather than fear or exhaustion, for many months. 

Letho’s ability to hold himself still would be alarming if Jaskier hadn’t spent so much time around Geralt. He rests in a chair by the fire, eyes shut, not one twinge or shiver to give away the fact that he is flesh, not stone. 

The sounds of gentle bickering break their reverie. The disgruntled voice is Lambert’s, the placating one Eskel’s, and the silence that follows the other two like a shroud is Geralt. Jaskier watches from a window as they trudge up to the manor’s entrance through nearly two feet of snow.

Letho rises from his chair and comes to set an hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. They both look out the window for a long moment, and Jaskier can see from their reflections in the glass that Letho’s eyes are trained on him. Eskel knocks at the front door outside and Letho pulls away, the heat of his fingertips whispering over Jaskier’s skin and vanishing into the air. 

A monster is dead, and with no major injuries to any of the witchers that killed it. Jaskier has Leo break out a bottle of his best wine, which quickly disappears, then several kegs of much less expensive ale. Lambert and Eskel entrench themselves in a game of Gwent. Jaskier corners Geralt in the kitchen. 

“I have to admit,” Geralt rumbles, “I’m impressed.”

“Oh?” Jaskier leans against the counter next to him, hands in his pockets and head tilted as if he has no idea what Geralt is talking about.

“Thought it would take at least a month.”

“No sense waiting for a little physical affection,” Jaskier says. “I’ve taught you better than that.”

Geralt hums and nods. He soaks up the stillness of the empty room, Jaskier’s presence like a steady beating drum at his side. “You know he can’t join us.”

“I know.”

“You don’t sound upset.”

“I’m not.” Jaskier’s face is turned towards the hearth, his chestnut hair turned gold around the edges. He always looks more fey in flickering light, as if the brightness cannot chase the shadows away fast enough to hide the magic in his blood. “I understand history, Geralt. It’s a layered, twisting beast. And far too much of it lies between you and him for comfort.”

“I expected you to be frustrated with that.”

“I’m not,” Jaskier repeats. “I love your brothers, you know. More than I ever loved my own family. But you’re the only one I’d lay down my life for." He turns to face Geralt, and his eyes are a riptide. All it takes is a touch for Geralt to be pulled out to sea, torn away from shore by forces far beyond his control.

“I would never ask you to do that.”

“And I would never invite a man to our bed who once tried to kill you.”

Geralt snorts, his hands on Jaskier’s hips. He leans in close so his next words sound into Jaskier’s ear. “That’s a short list.”

He can hear the furrow in Jaskier’s brows. “Men who have tried to kill you?”

“Men who haven’t.”

Jaskier laughs and winds his hands through Geralt’s hair, dirty from fighting and brittle from the cold. “I think Yennefer would scold us for only speaking of men.”

“Yennefer belongs on her own damn list.”

Jaskier looks ready to come up with some retort, but Geralt kisses him before he can manage it. Arms wrap around his neck, slender and warm, and the night air that blows in from the window sends a chill rippling through him. He pulls back as little as he can, breathing into shared space. “Thank you,” he says. 

The response is barely a whisper, more felt than heard, Jaskier’s lips like a benediction against his own. 

“For you, anything.”

…

Destiny crosses the threshold as the house retires to bed. Jaskier and his wolves return to their shared room, a huddle of warmth and friendly jostling of elbows. Letho goes upstairs to sleep like a rock. Leo sleeps in the servant’s quarters, in a room that Jaskier has offered to move him out of for years, but which he keeps because he likes the memories it holds.

She lays a hand on one stone wall, the crevices of it flashing gold like the strands that now envelop the manor in a cocoon. The stone heats beneath her palm, then cools. 

The grain is planted now. Five slumbering figures, not one of them fully human, lie within the house. Five long, long lives that will bring about the change they have already begun. Her magic will sit in their halls and watch. It binds these lives together. And, given time, it will bind many, many more. 

Destiny leaves. All that marks her passing is a swirl of snow that catches at her feet as she steps out of the manor and into the night beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a lot of super sweet comments talking about cuddle piles and such. As much as I love the thought, I just couldn't do it. These characters have too much bloody history, and too many self-preservation instincts, to end up sleeping comfortably next to each other. Letho and the wolves can be cordial, sure, but anything approaching intimacy felt way too unrealistic for me to write. Hope you guys still enjoyed! 
> 
> As always, please feel free to leave rants/opinions/thoughts in the comments!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon? Who's she? I've never heard of her. 
> 
> Also, I'm posting this a few hours before midnight in my time zone. So happy new year to all of you! Good fucking riddance to 2020. It was a nightmare, but we got through it, and I'm hopeful for a better 2021.

It is many years before Lettenhove becomes a sanctuary. Years before witches and dragons and children of destiny. Before any of the stories you know, the stories you have been told, there was Vaeve.  
.  
See, the humans, as they are wont to do, made a mistake. They each looked at the heavens and worshipped their gods as the only gods. They turned on each other, arguing over who was right and who was wrong, never stopping to think that perhaps, there was no one right answer. Melitele exists. As does Destiny. And Vaeve exists as well – goddess of the faeries, lover of women, and patron of music. 

She sits in her throne in the heavens, watching. The humans dance and die as she gazes down. Her own people are far longer lasting. The faeries in the forests and the waves sing songs to her. They string their necks with gems and drink sweet wine in her honor. Vaeve keeps an eye on all of them. Even the mischievous. Even the villainous. She even keeps an eye on those fae that are half-mortal. 

So long before the stories you know, there was Vaeve. And under her watchful eye, lute in hand and un-scuffed boots on the road, there was Jaskier. 

He was a poor player in the early days, too quick to leap at songs he did not have the skills for. But those skills came, in time. Vaeve amused herself by listening in once in a while when he was at school. Every year his music was able to hold her focus for longer. And then he left, abandoning the safety of university for a life of wandering. She watched his steps carry him far away from the place of his birth and knew, as goddesses know things, that it was her people’s blood in him that made him restless. 

Restless, and reckless too. Destiny knew it. She showed up on Vaeve’s doorstep one morning, magic thick around her. The ever-present smirk of the powerful sat proud on her face. “You’ll want to watch this one,” she said. 

The two stood at the cliffs of heaven, gazing down at a white-haired man in a tavern and the musician that approached him. They spoke, briefly, and the musician called after the witcher as he left. Vaeve could see Destiny’s touch nipping at his heels. It followed him in great invisible swirls of power. And when Jaskier followed him, unrelenting, they tangled with him too. 

“Big plans?” Vaeve asked. 

“Larger than they will ever understand,” Destiny told her. She turned to Vaeve, her eyes the same gold as the witcher’s. “Would you like to play a game, goddess?”

She was the deity of the fae. Her answer was yes. 

And so the heavens bent to two immovable wills. The terms were laid out, set in blood, magic, and stone. Destiny knew all, planned all. Vaeve’s task was to guess. She would watch the mortals, watch the way they loved and fought and died, and try to predict what Destiny already knew would come next. She was wrong most of the time. Too many variables, too much else on her mind. But on those rare occasions when she guessed correctly, Destiny would let her change the story. 

Lives were spared at Vaeve’s request. Mothers meant to die in childbirth lived to raise their children. Kings meant to fall in battle dodged at the last possible instant. A witch with fire in her heart and an impossible wish survived a flood of chaos meant to consume her - magic such as the world had never seen before. Decades and choices flowed past the gods like water, and Vaeve liked to twist the current. 

Then came the beginning of the tale you have heard. It began with a man, a snowstorm, and a town. 

Vaeve appeared in Destiny’s realm with a burst of light. The other woman knew why she had come. 

“Another one so soon, goddess?”

“I’m certain this time.”

Destiny smiled. “And?”

“The witcher, Eskel, is injured. He is going to find his way to Lettenhove, where Julian Pancratz used to live.”

Destiny inclined her head. “You speak truth so far, but it is not enough.”

Vaeve, unlike Jaskier himself, saw how the town changed when its lord was away. She knew how the stories of his exploits had shifted their loyalties.

“They will take the witcher in and protect him,” she said. “And when he leaves it will be in friendship.”

With a nod, Destiny declared her correct. But unlike all the times before, Vaeve’s request was not simply to save one life. Now she asked for stronger magic. 

A mesh of Destiny’s power and her own, woven through the manor and its people like fine thread. It was a flexible spell that they designed, one which warps and changes as choices are made. The ever-rotating cast of servants, nobles, and witchers who inhabit the manor all hold sway over its future. Destiny allows them, in this one spot of the globe, to be free from her influence. Her magic can guide them there or guide them away, but once in Lettenhove they are not bound by the plans she has laid. 

Vaeve wove the other half of the spell. She chose subtlety and craftiness, the way of the faeries. Inhabitants of the manor are protected from the woes of mortal life. Illness cannot take hold in them, nor injury. And while she did not grant them immortality, their lack of sickness and the fertile fields of Lettenhove guarantee them long lives. She made their fires hotter, their sleep more restful. The goddess made Lettenhove a sanctuary. 

Julian never notices. He is too swept up in his love and his life of adventure. He no longer worships any god with seriousness, abandoning the religion of both his father and his mother. Vaeve is not bothered by this. The fae are all her people, whether they realize it or not. It is to her they will return if violence claims their lives as time never will. Julian will meet her someday. 

His companions are not quite so oblivious. She feels the suspicions on the white-haired witcher more than once, when his pendant warns him of magic where there should be none. He is even less religious than his lover, jaded by the horrors of the road. It will amuse her someday, Veave thinks, to appear to him in a dream. Let the man’s stubbornness war with his own perceptions. 

The only one of them to understand her truly is the young witch. The Lion’s daughter. She takes one long look at the manor, many winters after the first when the viper met the wolves, and offers Vaeve a prayer of thanks. Her magic knows the goddess’s like a river knows the pebbles over which it runs. Vaeve takes to the young lioness immediately. 

As for Julian and the witchers he has grown so close with, they meet on the road far more often than chance should allow. In taverns and markets, across continents and countries, their paths cross. They fall into each other as old friends, comfortable in their closeness and their intimacy, as gentle with one another as warriors can be. And when they question their fortune, when they turn their faces to the heavens and wonder aloud why fate has aligned their paths so closely, the goddess of slyness and trickery only smiles.

She can’t let Destiny have all the fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end, folks! I probably won't write anything else for this 'verse, or the fandom at all really, until season 2 comes out. But I hope you guys enjoyed this wild ride, and thanks a ton for sticking around. I know I didn't keep to a decent upload schedule with this one, so I appreciate all the continued support. As always, feel free to leave thoughts/questions/rants in the comments, and if you guys ever want to chat, I'm @igneum_art on IG. Happy 2021!


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